


Traitor

by KaisaSegher



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Plot With Porn, Political! Jon, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s07e07 The Dragon and the Wolf, Queen in the North, R plus L equals J, Scheming, Smut, Wedding Fluff, mild possessive behavior, references to past abuse, slightly masochist Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 00:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13693371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: Jon comes back to Winterfell but not everything goes as he had expected. The Northmen don't trust him, his siblings don't trust him. And now he isn't even who he thought he was anymore, the depths of his sins greater than he had expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! I know I should have been working on my other unfinished stuff but this story kept on swimming in my head and I needed to write it anyway. As usual, something that was meant as a one shot ended up as something with multi-chapters because I can't seem to stop. Warning: Daenerys doesn't look good on this one, so if you like her I'd advise you against reading it.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

The cold winds howled in his ears, the Stark banners hanging from every tower flapping in the air, like they were glad to be home again. The snow crunched softly under his dark boots, the hem of his dark cloak dragging through it, likely getting soaked with every step Jon took towards the stone wall. The same place where she had proclaimed him a true Stark, the kindest words she could have uttered, piercing his heart.

All that was void now. He had betrayed them.

Bran, Arya. Sansa. His people. The same who had made him who he was.

_The King in the North! The King in the North!_

He could still hear their shouts, making the old stones of the great hall tremble under their feet. He had gulped, believing he had no right. Winterfell belonged to Sansa, not him. Stannis had offered it once, and Jon never accepted. It didn’t belong to him. He had no right over it. He wasn’t even a true Stark.

_You are, to me._

Those words. Those haunting words kept him awake at night, cursing the bastard blood that coursed through his veins. Cursing his father, for being who he was. For ever spawning him, for ever putting his seed in his mother’s belly. Jon had wished his own death, more than once. He had wished he hadn’t been brought back from the darkness, for even oblivion appealed to him more than this empty life.

And then he had seen her. A red braid against a flimsy grey cloak, red cheeks from the cold. A pair of impossibly blue eyes. Bluer than the summer sky he had grown up under, boring into his very soul. She had her lady mother’s looks, but the way she had run to him, almost knocking him to the ground, reminded him nothing of Lady Catelyn.

He was ready to leave before that. To go south and wait for death to take him. But he couldn’t, after that. He couldn’t leave her side. He couldn’t live in a world without her. Not after she told him that should that vile creature win she wasn’t going back alive. She was everything he had, after his own brothers had betrayed him. He wasn’t losing her. Not again.

And he had betrayed her. They had agreed they would trust each other. To be honest with each other, always. He hadn’t, when he decided to leave for Dragonstone. And when he bent the knee and called another his queen.

But somehow he still expected she would welcome him just like she had at Castle Back. Or at least with that soft smile from the battlements, her gloved hand waving at him as he left. Why had he looked back? He knew that would break him. And still he did. He needed to see her for the last time, her hair flapping in the wind as she stood above everyone else, her blue eyes on his and no one else.

Or at least for Arya to hug him as tightly as she did when they said goodbye, all those years ago. To finally see a smile back in his little brother's face, the one he hadn’t shared farewell words with. His heart stopped, seeing how much they both had grown and changed, part of the light in their eyes stolen by the wars and many losses they had endured. And three stern faces had met him, and though Arya had smiled weakly at him before wrapping her now not so small arms around him, it hadn’t been quite the same as it had been all those moons ago, when he thought he was alone in the world. And his sister’s brow had furrowed when she looked at the stranger just a few steps behind him, wrapped in white pelts as if that would make her a wolf.

The wolves. Jon had heard their howls in the woods, as Daenerys Targaryen approached the walls of Winterfell, her two dragons flying far away from there as he had convinced her to. And though the howls sounded nothing like it he had still made the words out in his mind.

_Traitor. Traitor._

And Sansa had been warmer to Tyrion and even Ser Davos than she had been with him, though she knew how to keep the polite façade better than anyone else. Years with Cersei had perfected that skill. And even Ghost had sniffed his clothes and walked away to the woods a moment after Jon patted his large head.

He wasn’t welcome anymore. And though Sansa had made sure their guests were well fed and given proper lodgings she didn’t utter a single word towards him besides what was strictly necessary to keep the appearances.

She was waiting, Jon realised. She was waiting for him to say something so she could spill all her wrath over his head. And he deserved it. He even longed for it. At least that would be something, and then he could try to make her understand.

But she said nothing, occupying the seat to his left as usual. She was Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and no one could scare her. Not even a foreign queen and her two dragons.

There were new faces at Winterfell. Mostly boys and girls of all ages, hiding behind thick cloaks as the older ones practiced sword fighting and archery. Robb’s war had taken half the grown men and Jon and Sansa’s the other. But at least their people seemed warm enough and well fed, though they too curled their lips at the silver haired stranger that called herself the rightful queen.

Daenerys.

He wondered briefly where she might be, and decided he didn’t care. In the end they had convinced her to aid the North and that was all that mattered. Jon had broken his vows before, with a lesser motive. Breaking them again, to keep her safe – to keep _them_ safe – didn’t cost him much.

He heard footsteps behind him, and then saw a golden head on the corner of his eyes, leaning forward over the stone balustrade.

“I see your lady sister and the Baratheon bastard are showing our queen the new sets of armour.”

Jon looked down at the courtyard. The Dragon Queen held her white coat tighter against her small body, Sansa gesturing towards the steel cuirasses lined with leather. That had been a clever idea. Cleverer than any of his own.

“You’re really in love with her” Tyrion mumbled.

“How would I not? She’s a beautiful woman” Jon sighed, his eyes drifting to the snow covered plains. Away. Away from her. He couldn’t bear looking at her, lest his eyes drifted somewhere else.

“She is. A more than competent ruler too.”

Jon gave a sad laugh.

Now that was a gross lie. If there was one thing Daenerys truly failed at was ruling. She didn’t hear anyone who dared contradict her, she burned food and terrified her people. And she was obsessed with the Iron Throne. Obsessed with her birth right.

Wanting to rule and ruling were very two different things.

“You disagree, bastard?” Tyrion raised his chin, defying him. “She has all the makings of a good queen. Her mind is as sharp as her lady mother’s, but her heart is as kind as her lord father’s.”

Jon frowned, looking at Tyrion.

“Aye, dwarf. The Mad King surely was a kind man” he scoffed, and his eyes landed on the red tresses flapping like a flag against a black cloak – _his_ old cloak.

Jon looked at the Godswood instead, but not even they could forgive him. No one at Winterfell could forgive him.

“I was talking about Ned Stark.”

His fingers curled over the stone, his nostrils flaring. Jon had felt it, once, when he held that vile creature against the wall, his life draining from his lips. There was this fire inside him, one he knew he couldn’t control. The same that had made him grab Theon only to let him go a moment after.

Jon took a long breath as the Dragon Queen rubbed her arms.

She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have brought her here. This wasn’t her place.

This was their place. _Theirs_ , and no one else's.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord” he said, his voice as steady as he could manage, his heart on his throat.

Tyrion was just testing him. Testing Jon’s loyalty to his queen. Pulling the tiny strings around his heart to know which one would finally tell him the truth.

_Smarter than father, smarter than Robb._

“You know how we won the Battle of Blackwater against Stannis forces?”

Now he was talking about his war deeds.

Sometimes Jon thought Tyrion had had so much to drink in his lifetime that he was never truly sober. But still, that was a much safer path to thread than the previous one.

“Wildfire. Do you know how the Mad King tried – and my dear sister succeeded – in destroying half of King’s Landing?”

Jon said nothing, still looking away. Somewhere. Somewhere on the horizon where his people and his family didn’t hate him.

“The same thing that saves you one day is the same that consumes you the other. Just like her.”

For the hundredth time since his horse had crossed the gates of Winterfell Jon wished the Red Woman hadn’t brought him back. Sansa had saved him. He hadn’t listened to her, on the eve of battle, and still she had saved him. Saved them all, when everything seemed lost. She could have won Winterfell on her own, if he was still dead. She could have rallied the North and bring the Knights of the Vale and get rid of Ramsay and Baelish on her own. She could have done it all without him.

But the Red Woman had brought him back, and he had ruined everything she had worked so hard to raise from the ground. Only because he had finally listened to her.

And now there was this fire in his chest, consuming him, turning his flesh and his bones to ash.

That was his bastard blood. His tainted blood, poisoning his mind with impossible whims.

“Daenerys” Tyrion felt the need to clarify. “She has the power to kill the Night King and win this war. And she has the power to kill us all if she doubts our loyalty.”

“I’m aware of that” Jon spat, before he could bite his tongue.

“You and I have the same goal, Jon. We want to survive this long winter, and for the ones we love to survive as well” Tyrion said, looking down at the courtyard again. Mercifully, the queen and her small group had disappeared into the castle. “You more than me, clearly. I couldn’t care less if my dear sister lives or dies. I hope the latter rather than the former.”

Jon took a long breath.

“I would have done the same, trust me. If only I wasn’t an ugly dwarf and she wasn’t a beautiful woman, like you said” the other man continued, jumping in his place to scare away the cold. Tyrion gave a sad laugh. “That doesn’t mean I liked it. Now you have her ear, instead of her council. But at least _someone_ has her ear, and there’s hope of controlling that Targaryen wildfire inside of her. That was a smart move, Snow.”

“They don’t understand that. They never will” Jon sighed, his fingers absently stroking the small direwolves on the straps of his cloak.

He would give everything to see her proud and yet shy smile again.

Everything. His kingdom, if he still had one. If he hadn’t given it to her already, before selling it to another.

His life. His own life, just to see her smile.

There had been only one face he had wanted to look atawhen they had made him king. And only one he feared seeing again after bending his knee.

“You need to stop brooding over her” Tyrion said, his hand on Jon’s elbow. “I’ve seen that sort of longing once and I’ve seen how it ends. People die. Cities turn to dust. You, and I, and Ser Davos, and Lord Varys, and the Red Woman, and your brother and your sister – sisters. We all have parts to play on the war to come. And we must play them as best as we can.”

“Who else knows?”

Tyrion took a long breath, crossing his short arms over his chest.

“Davos might suspect something. He isn’t blind. And Varys. That man knows everything.” He paused. “I doubt any of them would say a thing, though. They have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

The cold wind howled again, a guard approaching them.

_Traitor. Traitor._

The king’s brother wanted to see him.

Of course, Bran would want to discuss his birth-right.


	2. Chapter 2

He hid his face in his hands, his shoulders falling as he leaned forward, towards the fire. The flames could burn him, and so they had many years ago, when he was just a steward at the Watch. A beardless boy whom wouldn’t even dream of ever being Lord Commander. Even less King in the North. Even less…

His eyes prickled with tears, his chest heaving as the thought crossed his mind again.

No, it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. It made no sense. It wasn’t possible.

Someone was playing a terrible game with them. Someone, up above, had twisted their fates for some foul motive.

It couldn’t be true.

But Jon knew it was, as yet another sob shook him. The pieces fit together perfectly now. Why father wouldn’t tell him the truth. Why he had raised him as his trueborn son. Eddard Stark had made a promise and his secret went to his grave with him.

Meanwhile, Jon had broken each and every single one of his vows.

All except for one.

_I will protect you._

He had. He had told lies, he had made threats, he had deceived and he had killed. But she – they were safe, and that was all that mattered.

Who he was didn’t. Sansa would be queen, and Arya would be Lady of Winterfell, and Ser Davos or Tyrion could plan the battles to come. He would disappear like he had wanted since the beginning. He had played his part already. He would take his sword, kill as many wights as he could, and embrace the darkness when it came.

He didn’t want what Bran had laid on his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted the North in the first place, but Sansa had smiled at him, and she had stood by his side. And he would have grown old with nothing but that. He would have ruled alone and she would have married some nice young lord from a lesser house, one she loved. And when Jon was grey and died in his bed surrounded by his nephews, little wolves like Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya, he would close his eyes and die in peace, leaving their kingdom to one of Sansa’s sons.

That was all he had hoped for. And now even that had been taken for him.

He was tainted. Fouled. Unworthy to step on the same stones as they all did. Lady Catelyn had been right. Bastards couldn’t be trusted. Their blood was stained.

There was a soft knock on his door.

“Not now” he growled, all his fury rumbling up his throat, his fists smacking the tears running down his cheeks and soaking his beard.

He was no king. He was no lord. He was no Three Eyed Raven or whatever. Whomever was outside his door could go find someone else to bother.

“It’s me” she said, coldly. “Sansa.”

Jon didn’t need her to clarify. He could distinguish her voice in a crowd.

He wanted to send her away too. To hurt her so badly she would never take a step towards him ever again. He was repulsive. Vile. And she was the purest creature he had ever laid eyes on. He didn’t want her near him lest he ruined her too.

Yes, Lady Catelyn had been right to keep them apart while they were children. It had been for the best.

“Jon.” She knocked again, and now there was a sadness on her voice too. “Bran said I should talk to you. Honestly, I think we need to speak.”

He cleaned his eyes, standing up slowly to unbolt the door, almost tripping on his cloak on the floor. The cloak she had made him. The cloak he hadn’t taken off, even when it was too warm to wear it. It reminded him of who he really was, even when everyone else was determined to take his home away from him.

Why hadn’t he taken Cersei’s offer? The four of them and their people would hide inside Winterfell’s walls until spring. They had – _Sansa_ had enough men to repel the Walkers and send them on their way south to raise another city to the ground. She owned half the country and Jon was glad neither Cersei nor Daenerys had noticed it just yet.

He opened the door for her and stepped aside to let her in.

He wanted this. He wanted her to shout at him, to call him a fool and a traitor and say that she hated him. He needed to hear it. He need to hear it from her mouth. That he had left her alone with that snake to sell their kingdom to that foreign bitch. That he had left her alone, in a rat’s nest, with every lord and lady offering her the crown and still she remained loyal to him while he bent the knee to another.

He needed to hear it, so he could hate himself properly.

“Was your journey pleasant enough?” she said, squaring her shoulders, a polite smile on her lips. “I trust the winds weren’t too harsh on you.”

She was different. Her hair was different, more loose or redder, if that was possible. Just like her dress, dark and thick as ever, but she somehow had lost those complicated belts she wrapped herself with. But the fur around her shoulders Jon could recognize. She had it since the day she had jumped into his arms and nudged her nose against his cheek.

And she looked as beautiful and as regal as ever.

“Sansa, please, just say what you came here to say” he spat, taking his chair by the fire again and gesturing for her to take the other. He heard her skirts rustling, but she stood tall above him, her long shadow engulfing him as he sank his head on his hands, waiting for the blow.

“Oh, so we are being honest after all?” she mocked, dropping her cloak on the chair as she finally took it. “You didn’t think, not even once, to ask for my opinion?”

There it was. It was just like it had been in his tent, on the eve of battle. Except this time he wasn’t shouting back.

Good. Let her spit all her hate at him.

Please. Please! Let her loathe him.

“You go south without consulting me. You bend the knee without consulting me” Sansa spat, waving her hands in the air, and he could imagine some curls freeing themselves from the knot at the back of her head and swaying around her face, her lips tense and her cheeks flushed just like when she was really angry. “You bring _her_ here without consulting me.”

“Is that the matter?” he asked before he could think. That was his bastard blood again, hoping. But why would he hold on to that? After what he had done all hope was lost. He would have been her brother before that, standing by her side patiently until his heart stopped beating. Now he was just a treacherous dog she needed to send away.

She stood up, reaching for the jug of ale on the small table beside his window, her heavy skirts mumbling softly behind her. It reminded him of another night they had sat by the fire, when she had asked for his forgiveness and he had said there was nothing to forgive, mesmerized by the golden figures the flames drew on her pale skin. They had laughed together that night.

This night was nothing like that.

“Of course that’s the matter!” she yelled, shoving a mug in his hand as she took a large gulp from hers. She started to pace the room, waving her free hand aimlessly. “You are king, our people made you king. Do you know how hard it was to hold everything together while you were away, doing the gods know what? I mean, were you even thinking?”

Sansa turned towards him, her eyes wide as if they were about to drop from their orbits, her hair in a disarray as she closed her fist at her side.

He said nothing. What could he say? She was right. She was right about everything.

“Capturing a wight? For what? Did you really think you would convince _her_?” she spat again, and took another gulp from her ale.

Jon twisted his mug between his hands.

He deserved it. He deserved that and more for what he had done.

“It took more than that to convince her” he mumbled, frowning as that now soiled memory crossed his mind again.

“Oh, really? So Cersei Lannister will send her help in the end?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, sticking a hand at her hip and raising her chin.

People liked to think Sansa was just a frail pretty thing. And yet she had survived everything they had thrown at her. Even Baelish had underestimated her, commiting the same mistake as many men. They saw the beauty, and Sansa was beautiful, more beautiful than any other woman Jon had ever seen. But they failed to see the iron underneath, sharper and stronger than any sword.

“I meant Daenerys.”

She finished her drink and dropped the mug over the hearth.

The flames turned her hair even redder and her skin to gold. But there was ice running in her veins, no less. The Blood of Winterfell, they called her. She might have her lady mother’s looks but she was Lord Eddard’s daughter through and through. She had more honour and kindness than Jon himself, and she had taken no vows.

“Is that why you bend the knee, Jon?”

His name on her lips woke him up.

“Aye, it was. But that wasn’t enough, apparently.” He brought the mug to his lips. “No, not that, nor staying by her side when Cersei said her only condition was that the North remained neutral-“

“That was a trap” Sansa cut sharply, taking her seat again.

“I know” he spat. What did she think? That he was daft or something? That she was the only smart person in the room? Of course he had betrayed her. He had betrayed them. And in the end he had done a terrible thing. But how could he know? How could he, when everyone had lied to him since the moment he had left his mother’s womb?

“Well, if you know so much, why is she here?” she scoffed, crossing her arms.

“She’s here because she has two dragons and we need them if we want to survive this winter.”

Sansa closed her mouth, looking at the flames as she shook her head. But she wasn’t the Red Woman. She wouldn’t find her answers there.

“You could have told me!” She raised her voice again, looking at him instead. “You could have said something instead of just making all the decisions by yourself. King you may be- Not anymore, since you sold the North to her.”

Jon cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand and walked away. He couldn’t bear to look at her. He couldn’t see the shadow of his own deceit in her blue eyes.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, Jon!” she growled, and before he could react her hand was around his wrist, scorching through his woollen tunic. His eyes went from her hand to her face, her lips parted as she panted, her face scrunched with anger.

“For you, Sansa!” he roared, freeing himself from her grasp. “For all of you! You, Arya, Bran. Our people. Do you think we stand a chance? It’s not Ramsay! You can’t just summon an army on the last minute this time.”

“We were supposed to trust each other. You said we couldn’t fight a war amongst ourselves.”

“Aye, I did.”

“And you betrayed your people. You betrayed us. You betrayed me.” She almost whined that last bit, pressing her hand to her heart. “You are my brother and you didn’t trust me.”

Jon closed his fists tightly, a fire rumbling in his chest. Did she think it had been easy? That he had just decided to ignore her and make his own decisions? No! She had gone through enough already. She had enough on her hands ruling in his stead. How would he burden her with the fact that the Dragon Queen wouldn’t listen to anything besides him calling her ‘his queen’? Sansa wouldn’t have let him. Sansa would have fought until the end with a dozen men before letting him sell their kingdom for safety. Before letting him sell himself.

And now he was the traitor. Not her. Their people had a good leader to guide them through the storm. If she knew about Jon’s plan, if she had agreed, then she too would be called a traitor now and then who would rule?

“You have no idea!” he roared, tired of being chastised like he was just a boy. As it turned out it didn’t felt as good as he had hoped. It hurt him. It hurt him more than he cared to admit that she was this angry at him. “You have no idea, Sansa! You don’t know what it took to convince her. To make sure all the people I love had their best shot at not being dead in a couple of moons.”

“Then tell me!” she demanded, pacing the room again as she threw her arms in the air. “Tell me. You cannot keep me in the dark about everything and then accuse me of not knowing!”

She looked beautiful like that, panting softly after screaming at him. Jon had taken himself in hand that night on the eve of the battle, after tossing and turning under the furs, her name dripping from his lips as he told himself that he would die come morning. That it was just once, and because he was restless to be facing Ramsay. It was just once, and just because she was the only woman around, even though she wasn't.

It hadn’t been just once, and that just proved how truly monstrous he was. He wasn’t better than the ones he had hit and threatened for her. In his dreams he was always gentle to her. He never hurt her. And he lied to himself, telling it was more than just lust. She had saved him. She had given him a reason to get up and keep fighting, even when he was covered in blood and filth. When he saw her red braid in the battlefield he still found the strength to keep going.

For her.

His head spun as his heart jumped to his throat. He couldn’t tell her. It was too foul. She couldn’t know. Jon pursed his lips together, swallowing his words thickly as he looked at her skirts, waving around her as she turned towards him again.

“Tell me! How can I understand why you betrayed us if you don’t tell me?” she insisted.

He wouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell her.

He couldn’t tell her.

“Go away, Sansa” he commanded, his voice low as he looked at his feet, unable to endure her gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you made all this mess!” she shrieked, her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed.

That fire again. That fire that made him lose control. That had made him press Baelish against the stone with his hand around his neck.

“I don’t need your scolding!” he yelled, and now he was the one pacing the room, waving his arms in the air as he circled Sansa, like a prey, finally realising he was on the right. “I don’t deserve your hate, and I don’t want it! Do you want to know what I did? I crossed a frozen hell to make her believe it! Uncle Benjen got killed so she would believe it! She lost one of her precious dragons – _children_ , she calls them – and still she wouldn’t believe it. I called her ‘my queen’ and ‘Dany’ and all sorts of shit I thought might sweeten her ears and still she wouldn’t believe it!”

He was tired. He was so tired. He was tired of all that hatred. He wanted to pour his heart out on her, spit all the poison he had inside his veins.

But he couldn't.

“Uncle Benjen?” Jon heard her whisper, but he ignored her.

“Do you really want to know why she’s here?” Jon spat, looking away again. “She’s here because I lied to her too. She’s here because I slept with her and made her think I was in love with her when all the while the only thing I could think about was that if I squinted my eyes a little bit her hair almost turned red in the candlelight.”

Sansa gulped and took a few steps back as if he had slapped her.

“I’m sorry.” She really sounded like it. “I know you loved Ygritte and- Well, will you marry her then?”

Ygritte? Hadn't she realized by now?

He gave a sad chuckle.

“I can't marry her. I don't want to and I can't.”

“Why not? You are both young and she's quite beautiful” she said, and now she was looking away too.

_Aye, she is. But she is not right. She is not the right one. She’s shorter than me and has no scars on her body. She hates the snow. She burns food when people are starving. She kills people just because they don't agree with her. She forgets Robb was king. And she doesn't listen to me._

“She’s my aunt, Sansa” he sighed, before he could think, avoiding her gaze. “Apparently, Bran saw something and Sam found some papers on the matter. I didn’t know until now.”

He looked at her, her mouth hanging open as her back stiffened. But she was still listening.

So he kept going. He needed to tell someone. And he needed it to be her.

“And I slept with her because she wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t listen and everyone was pointing to me how she had a good heart and all that and I thought I might as well try. Whatever convinced her.”

“That- That makes no sense. She’s the Mad King’s only daughter.” Sansa mumbled.

So he had to explain that part too. Bran and Sam could have made him that favour.

“Rhaegar married Lyanna in secret after he got an annulment. I’m Lyanna’s son, apparently. I’m the Mad King’s grandson, if you will.”

“Jon…” she whispered, grabbing his hand and gently squeezing it.

No. That wasn’t right.

He didn’t deserve her. He couldn't stain her with his sins.

“It changes nothing” she assured him.

“It fucking changes everything!” he roared, freeing himself from her gentle grip. She was too gentle. Too kind, after what they had done to her. After what _he_ had done to her. “I’m not king, so the North isn't hers. But I’m not Eddard Stark’s bastard son, I’m not even a Snow. I’m not even a bastard, it seems. So now I have all this on my shoulders when I don’t really want it. Never did. Not even once. All I wanted was to be father's legitimate son and for Robb to be my real brother. That you didn't call me half-brother all the time. And now I’m not your brother at all! I don't know who I am anymore.”

_I’m not even-_

“You are Jon. You will always be Jon to me.”

_I’m not even your brother at all._

That was the only good thing he got out of all that mess.

_I’m not your brother._

He pressed his hands against the wall, caging her between his arms. Her skin glowed in the firelight, and her short breaths fanned against his beard, her bright eyes scanning his face.

But she didn't look scared, and she didn't push him away. And her lips were redder than the most delicious cherries. And he couldn't think anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon brushed his lips against hers, his hand cradling the back of her head as he realized this was selfish and sinful in so many ways. But he couldn't ignore that ache anymore. Not when he had no reason to and every reason not to.

This was wrong. This was so wrong. Men had taken what they wanted from her, and she had trusted him with that knowledge. And Jon was no better than them, taking too. Taking what he wanted, without consent.

He tried to pull away from her, to at least give her the chance to run. But she hummed softly against his lips, her small hand tentatively stroking his beard as if she wasn't sure she was allowed to. She was. She had always been, even though it frightened him in the beginning. How she would grab his hand across the table, but his fingers would curl around hers to their own accord. How it seemed out of place, for brother and sister to act like that, for him to stroke the back of her hand, or for her to sit by his side on the great hall.

Because that was her place. That was _his_ place. By her side. Always. That was everything he could ever want. No kingdom, no crown and no throne would mean anything if she wasn’t with him.

He covered her hand with his, encouraging her as he delved his tongue into her mouth, her breasts pressing deliciously against his chest, rubbing up and down as she huffed through her nose, angling her head just right for him explore her mouth.

He ached for her. Too many moons had passed with him cursing himself and his bastard blood. But Sansa was not his sister. Had never been. They hadn’t even been raised as such.

Jon dragged his hand down her back, pulling her flush against him, and Sansa dug her hand in his curls, whimpering softly as he nibbled at her lower lip, tasting the bitter ale she had just drunk. But she was sweeter than he had ever expected. Than he had ever dreamt. Sansa had always liked sweet things. He would buy her a thousand lemon trees to fill the glass gardens, if that made her happy.

Her thigh brushed against his cock and he groaned, one of her hands slipping shyly under his tunic, his skin buzzing at the contact. And this… This was better than anything he could have hoped for, but still not enough. He wanted more. All of her. He wanted to drown himself in her. To forget his betrayal, to forget his crimes. She was so pure, and strong. She was that tender light, deep in his heart, that urged him forward.

He caught the laces of her dress at her back, but before he could pull them his lungs complained and they had to part.

She whimpered, her eyes still closed as she licked her lips, moist and swollen, leaning her head towards his hand as he cupped her face. Jon furrowed his brow, wondering if he had frightened her. If she was going to slap him and run away to never speak to him again. And his heart sunk, realising he should have asked her first. He was no better than the others.

“Jon” she whimpered, both her warm hands stroking his skin under his tunic.

His name. He didn’t care what his mother had called him. He doubted it had been his mother in the first place. Probably Rhaegar, obsessed with prophecies and old stories. His name sounded wonderful rolling out of Sansa’s tongue anyway.

_You will always be Jon to me._

He would. He would be her Jon. No matter what name came after that one, or the titles before. He didn’t care for them. As long as she was the one saying his name.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes searching her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks.

He should have asked her. She had told him everything she had been through and he knew he should have asked her.

Sansa licked her lips again and opened her eyes. There was little blue in them now, and an endearing blush covered her face and disappeared into the neckline of her dress.

She smiled, a full smile, like the one she had given him that night before the fire when they had shared that awful ale. He should have seen it then. He should have realised it then and should have stepped away. But she was everything he had. He couldn’t just let her go. Not before she had her home back.

And then her smile was gone.

“I’m so sorry, Jon” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his, her brows knit. Her hands, caressing his back soothingly. “I’m sorry they lied to you, and I’m sorry for…”

She gulped, unable to finish the sentence, and his heart broke.

He had lied to her, he had gone behind her back while she held their kingdom together, and prepared their people for the long winter. While she had calmed the angry lords after he had bent the knee. He should have talked to her first. They should have planned it together. Sansa had learnt how to calculate her every step. She still missed a few, but Jon was still trying to figure out how not to trip on his own feet.

And she still said she was sorry.

His hands went to hers and he pealed them from him. He needed some space between them. He wanted her to speak freely.

“Can you forgive me, Sansa? Can you find in your heart a way to forgive me?” he asked, his voice rougher than he had expected, his eyes on his boots again, unable to face her. Unable to endure the blow when she said she couldn’t.

“We all had to do terrible things” she said, her voice steady. “We still have. Baelish-“

“He deserved his death. If it hadn’t been Arya and you I would have done it myself” he cut her, his blood boiling as that man’s venom echoed in his ears again. Jon still regretted not killing him then. Maybe he wouldn’t be worrying so much while he was away, though he had told himself time after time that Sansa could look after herself. And Ghost wouldn’t have failed him either.

“That doesn’t mean it felt good. But it was the right thing to do” she continued, and now her hand was on his face again, gently stroking his beard and forcing him to look up. She was so beautiful. And kind. And clever. After all she had endured…

A warrior princess. Maybe not like those of the Free Folk. Definitely not a spearwife. But though she had dreamt it as a girl Sansa was no longer some willowy creature who sat up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. Unless that knight was Lady Brienne, but not even her had freed Sansa from Ramsay’s claws, or Littlefinger’s.

“I wished you had told me before. For that I can forgive you” she said.

His heart sank in her chest and he looked away again. The lie she could forgive. But she would never forgive all the monstrosities he had done.

“As for the rest, Jon” Sansa called softly “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He pressed her against the wall, his mouth crashing against hers as his arm circled her waist, pulling her flush against him. Sansa gave a small whimper. He had scared her. He had scared her again. He needed to learn how to control himself. He had held back for so long, it shouldn’t be so hard right now.

But it was. It was when his mouth swallowed her delicious moan as her tongue searched for his, her hand at the back of his neck pulling him to her, keeping his mouth on hers. She was so warm and real in his arms, arching her back so her hips pressed against his, and now he was uncomfortably hard, his heart thrumming against his ribs, more alive than ever.

She pushed him away gently, panting harshly, her eyes still closed. Her tongue darted out of her mouth to lick her lips and Jon had to refrain from kissing her again.

"Do you want me, Jon?" she asked, her dark eyes fixed on his, a stern look on her face.

He gulped, but the lump in his throat remained there.

“I thought- I thought you already knew that” he said, rubbing her arms, his breeches uncomfortably tight. “I mean, it’s a bit obvious.”

She frowned, covering his hands with hers.

“Do you want _me_?”

What in the Seven Hells did she want him to say?

“Sansa, I told you before leaving.” He had hoped she would catch his true meaning. At least to some degree. It seemed it hadn’t been so. “The North is a part of me, and I left it in your hands. A part of me. A part of me is yours. It will always be yours, no matter the odds.”

Sansa opened her mouth to say something. And then she closed it again.

"Why?" she all but shrieked.

She was testing him too. She was making sure she wasn't disposable to him.

How could he find the words to explain how precious she was to him?

He could have said so many things. The way she said she was sorry, even though he had been the one to betray them. How she held his hand reassuringly. How her hair floated around her when she paced the courtyard. How beautiful her smile was. How brave she was. Her clear laughter, like the bells they had rang from dawn to dusk the day she was born.

But none of those pretty words came to his mind then.

"Because it's you, Sansa. It’s you."

Her eyes filled with tears and he regretted his words instantly.

That must have been the right answer, though, for she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him for a hungry kiss.

"Then love me, Jon” she pleaded, turning around and pulling her hair to the side, exposing the laces of her heavy dress. “Like husband and wife. I'm not scared. I know it hurts, but I’m not scared anymore."

Jon shook his head, that fire rumbling again. No. No, that wasn’t right.

His heart shattered in a million small pieces, and his hand went to her shoulder, carefully turning her towards him again, as gently as he managed, his brows knit as he tried to understand what such a remarkable creature had done to deserve such pain. Thinking she loved a little monster? She was just a girl, dreaming of Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, and his Queen Naerys. Just like every other girl her age, probably.

Jon had had his foolish dreams too. He still had.

Like one where he asked the Red Woman to bring them back from the dead for him to kill them all over again.

"It won't hurt, sweetheart. I promise." And this one he intended to keep, as he cupped her sweet cheek. She closed her eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I’ll make it good for you.”

She gave a short nod, and he nodded back at her.

And this time, when she turned around, he was the one to pull her long red hair over her shoulder, his lips on the side of her neck, his fingers pulling at the laces of her dress.

“Is this what you want, Sansa?”

This time he remembered to ask first. It was his duty, it was what he had to do. She had said she wasn’t scared, but he needed to know. He needed to know this was what she wanted too. That she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. That he hadn’t imagined it in his head, the small fleeting touches, her blush when he had kissed her forehead a thousand years ago, that shy smile when he said something silly. Like liking the wolf bit.

“Please” she breathed, her hands on her shoulders, pushing the sleeves aside. “Please, Jon.”

He spun her around again, and she blushed all the way from her forehead to the top of her cream bodice. Jon leaned down to pick her dress from the ground, trying not to stare at her too much yet, and left it on the back of the chair nearby.

She was beautiful. More beautiful than he had imagined, even on his filthiest dreams. She had been born pretty, but she had grown into the most beautiful woman he had even seen.

He couldn’t move, his feet stuck to the stone as he stood before her, his eyes drifting from her grey wool stockings, admiring the endearing blue bows at her thighs as he thought about slowly peeling them off and kissing up her lean leg, to the tops of her breasts, rising and falling into her bodice.

Jon might have lost a kingdom that night and earned yet another sin to the already long list he had. But it didn’t matter, after she had forgiven him. If she was with him, nothing mattered. He would be her Prince Aemon, if she wanted. Even if she never married him, he would protect her with his life until his last day. Until his last breath. He would. For her he would. That was all he ever wanted from life.

She was shaking, but the room seemed warm enough for him.

“Are you afraid of me, Sansa?” he asked, still not moving.

“No!” she shrieked, her eyes wide as she reached for his hand. “I’m not- I was never scared of you, Jon.”

A wide smile crept on his lips as he held her tightly against him, kissing her again. He didn’t deserve her. After all he had done he didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, he didn’t deserve her love. He didn’t deserve what she was offering just now.

_Let me die, tomorrow. Let me die and let this be my last memory. Not the Night King, nor the dragons and the cold. But this._

He knelt before her, and Sansa frowned, confused. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and she nodded slowly.

She was the only one he would have bent the knee for. There were too many queens these days, and all of them had asked for the same thing.

_Bend the knee, Jon Snow._

Daenerys hadn’t noticed it, or perhaps none of the members of her small council had been kind enough to tell her. But Jon hadn’t bent the knee to her. Never. Not even once. He had called her his queen and that had been enough. Apparently no one had told her calling someone something without fulfilling the proper procedure didn’t mean a thing in Westeros.

He had played with her ignorance, and he had lost in the end anyway.

That didn’t matter now.

He kissed Sansa’s thigh above her stocking, deciding he rather liked it. He could hear her breath and the crackling of the fire and the winds outside. But for a while the room was quiet and nobody was calling him a traitor anymore.

He continued up her leg, until he reached her smallclothes, and she nodded again when his eyes asked for permission. There were tiny white angry scars on the sides of her hips, as if someone had beat her there with a stick. Jon knew they had. But all those marks would fade away with time, though never completely leaving her.

His were starting to fade away too, but unlike hers they were still too ugly for anyone to look at them without being shocked. Daenerys eyes had avoided them as much as she could.

Jon shook his head, pushing that thought from his mind before he felt nauseous.

He didn’t want that in his mind now. Sansa had forgiven him. That was all that mattered.

He run a finger over Sansa’s smallclothes, giving her time to tell him to stop if it was too much for her. The fabric was damp and warm, and Sansa panted softly as he touched her, her hands searching for the wall behind her. Jon’s fingers searched for that sweet spot between her folds, and this time she moaned, writhing against his touch.

He wouldn’t hurt her. He would never hurt her. Jon didn’t know what kind of terrible memories this could bring back to her. He had an idea, she hadn’t kept him completely in the dark about it.

_If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive._

Jon had made a promise then too, one he hadn’t kept. He wasn’t very good at keeping promises. But Eddard Stark had kept most of his and look how much hurt that had brought them all.

Still, he wanted to show Sansa how good it could be. How good it was _meant_ to be. He planted small kisses from one hip to the other, his fingers tugging at the laces of her smallclothes. Her hand went to the back of his head, her fingernails scrapping his scalp, and he hummed with satisfaction against her belly.

He had hoped for her forgiveness and her smile back, at least for a heartbeat, a blink of an eyes. And even those foolish dreams had been put aside the moment he got down from his horse, his eyes landing on hers.

He was being given so much more than that.

Jon undid the laces of her smallclothes and took them off, throwing them to the chair as well.

_Kissed by fire._

He knew _he_ had a fire inside him. A hunger. For her. For the woman they had made him believe was his sister and mercifully wasn’t anymore. Never had been. He had wondered more times than he wanted to admit if she had that same distinctive hue of red down there between her legs. Now he knew she did.

She gasped as his fingers parted her folds, shivering at his touch. Her pink flesh was glistening, just as it was meant to, but Jon had barely touched her yet. Maybe she too got aroused with their bickering and quarrelling. He knew he did. She shouldn’t be allowed to get so flushed and part her lips in such a bashful way while panting when she was angry at him. Or his prick shouldn’t be allowed to jolt every time she did.

He run his tongue along her slit, and the hand at the back of his head dug its nails in his skin as she keened, her other hand searching the wall for some kind of support, some misplaced stone she could hold on to. She spread her legs a little more and let her back fall down the wall, offering him a much better angle. Jon’s hands went to her hips, to hold her in that position, and he kissed her cunny again, this time his tongue finding that little bundle he had discovered women needed to be touched for them to feel good.

Not that he had had anyone else, besides Ygritte. But that had been a long time ago, on another life, another world. And now his heart ached only for the woman mewling softly above him, Sansa’s nails scratching his scalp in the most wonderful away.

“Jon” she panted as his lips closed around her nub and sucked gently. “Oh, Jon…”

She was so sweet. Sweet and a little sour, like a ripe lemon, and Jon finally understood why she liked lemon cakes so much. He would lap at her cunt everyday if she let him. If there wasn’t a war to fight outside his chambers. He would kneel at her feet and kiss her until she was soaking his chin all the way down his neck. Until all he could hear were her moans, filling the castle.

Until everyone knew she was his.

His. His, and no one else’s.

She was his song of ice and fire. The fire that had rumbled deep in his chest when he had almost killed Ramsay and Baelish for her. The fire that burnt his lips after he pressed them to her cold forehead, wishing he could kiss her properly instead. The fire that burned him, scorching him to his bones when her hand pulled his to her. And the ice to appease it. Her cold fingers stroking his curls, her gentle smile and how she had said she was sorry, even after he had been the one to betray her. Her broken sighs, whispering his name when he buried his face between her legs and wished for nothing more on this life than to die there.

His song. His, his, his.

Not Joffrey's, not Ramsay's, not Baelish's. Not Tyrion's.

His. She had chosen him. She had run away from them. She had condemned three of them to death, when everyone thought she was just a silly girl. She was her own woman now. A warrior princess indeed. But she had chosen him. She was there now, whimpering softly against the wall as his tongue flicked over her nub, his name dripping from her lips like another song, more beautiful than the ones she sang so often as a girl.

He would like to hear her sing again. Make her sing until dawn and their responsibilities were upon them once more. And then hear her sweet voice as she combed her hair in the morrow until it shined brighter than the summer sun itself.

Jon slipped a finger inside her, groaning as he felt her wet warmth welcoming it effortlessly. And the sound that came from her throat was more beastly than he would have expected from such a delicate creature.

_No, she’s not delicate. She’s made of ice and steel._

“Am I hurting you, Sansa?” he asked her, a deep frown on his brow, his voice hoarser than he had expected.

Her eyes were firmly closed, her hand pressed to her mouth, her breasts rising and falling under her bodice.

She shook her head.

Jon reached for her elbow, slowly tugging at it to uncover her mouth.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” It was a plea, not an order. But she obliged, her face turning redder than her hair as her bright blue eyes found his. “Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop?”

She rubbed her fingers on the back of his head, and it was Jon’s turn to purr.

“No.”

Jon released a relieved sigh.

“Does it feel good?”

She gulped thickly, but her eyes remained on his.

“Very.”

Jon’s mouth returned to her cunt with a wide smile, and another groan echoed through the room as he crooked his finger inside of her, pumping faster now. And she looked beautiful, her eyes never leaving his as her mouth hang open, increasingly shallower breaths filling Jon’s ears.

“Jon! Oh, Jon!” she growled, her walls fluttering around his finger as her wetness covered his beard, his mouth and his tongue gathering every drop they could reach. She pulled his hair more forcefully, and he too groaned with satisfaction as his cock twitched inside his breeches.

Gods, to be inside of her...

Sansa pushed him away and let herself fall down the wall, still panting heavily as she wrapped her arms around him and crashed her lips against his, her tongue tasting herself on his before he could warn her against it.

His heart leapt as he delved his fingers into her hair. This was all he had wanted for so long. So many sleepless nights, cursing himself, tossing in bed as his skin still burned from her innocent touch, a cloud of red hair fogging his mind. _She’s your sister_ , Jon had told himself, _and you should protect her, not taint her with your sinful thoughts._ And yet he had.

She licked her lips when they parted, Jon resting his forehead against hers, both of them still heaving a bit.

“Was it alright, sweetheart?” he whispered, his thumb brushing against her flushed cheek.

And her sweet, sweet smile was back when she nodded eagerly. He cradled the back of her head and pulled her closer, his nose nuzzling the crook of her neck.

Home. Jon was home, surrounded by her fiery hair and the smell of winter roses. They should have run away, when they could. He should have taken her south, maybe to Dorne, or somewhere across the Narrow Sea. And they would be no one. They would be together, in peace, somewhere no one knew who they were. 

But with Arya and Bran now that dream was impossible.

Sansa sighed, her warm breath fanning against his ear.

“That’s not the proper way, though” she mumbled, her hands roaming down his back.

“Every way can be the proper way, if you wish it.” But he knew what she was talking about. “I won’t put a babe in you, Sansa. I won’t father a bastard.”

Sansa huffed as she freed herself from his arms, and there was a sadness in her eyes. She stood up, reaching for her dress on the chair, and Jon felt strangely empty, as if his own heart had been ripped from his chest.

She was his heart. They had taken it away when they had killed him. And the Dragon Queen had tried to take it too, but it wasn’t his to yield. He had no heart if Sansa wasn’t close to him, holding his hand and smiling reassuringly and telling him he wasn’t Joffrey.

“I’m sorry, Sansa” he croaked, looking at the ground as he heard her dress flapping in the air, as if she was straightening it.

He wanted her. He wanted her so much. To press her to the mattress and lose himself inside of her, lose himself in her little moans, in her touch.

“I understand” she whispered, her tone so much colder than mere moments ago.

“Sansa, what if I put a babe in your belly? What will happen then?” he scoffed, a bit annoyed. Wasn’t she the clever one? Why wasn’t she thinking about consequences now? “The lords will press you to marry, and you need to find a good husband for you. Someone who’s kind to you.”

“I’m already ruined, Jon. _They_ ruined me.”

Her voice broke, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. Jon stood up and dug his hands on her naked shoulders, that fire rambling again, giving him no rest.

“Listen to me, Sansa” he almost growled. But his heart was breaking. He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t want someone else to marry her. He didn’t want her to die alone miserable either. She had wanted her own children, she had dreamt about it all her life. And she deserved it. “You’re not ruined. _They_ are. They were. And any man that gets to spend the rest of his life with you is the luckiest man alive.”

“But not because of me. Because of my titles, because of my land…” She closed her eyes, looking at her feet. “No man will ever want me for me, Jon.”

“I do. And I’m sure someone else will too” he assured her, cupping her cheek, and she sighed softly. “You’re a strong woman, Sansa. And you have a kind heart and-“

“Do you want to marry her, Jon?” she cut, her eyes wide open now, piercing him, and it felt like a sharp slap.

Jon frowned, shaking his head.

He had thought about it. Maybe that would make Daenerys happy. Uniting the two crowns, and yet letting him rule the North as an independent country. Maybe the promise of their heir finally ruling the two countries together would be enough for her. Would be enough to keep Sansa, Arya and Bran safe.

“No” he said, realising he couldn’t lie to her. No more lies. There had been enough between them. “I want to stay here. With you. With all of you.”

Her hands came to cup his face, her fingers caressing his beard.

 _That_. That was all he ever wanted.

“It won’t be safe for you here. The lords don’t trust you right now, and it will only get worst after they find out…” Sansa trailed off.

“That I’m not Eddard Stark’s son, bastard or otherwise” Jon mumbled.

She wanted him to go. She wanted him to marry the queen and go away.

Sansa was right. He would lose the North after his secret was found. And it was bound to happen. He wanted Sansa or Arya to take his crown. He had no right to it anymore. He had to tell the truth.

And then the Northmen would be enraged and call him traitor again. A Targaryen traitor, no less.

But no. No. He was a Snow. Winterfell was his home.

Sansa frowned, looking away. Looking at the flames.

“Marry me.”

Jon shook his head, not sure if he had imagined it.

And then her eyes were on his again, her chin raised, like a true queen. Queen she would be, once he stepped aside. And she would be better at it than him, than Robert or any of his brothers or sons, than Cersei, than Daenerys. She was better at it than any of them already.

“Marry me” she asked again. “You could stay here, you could be king still, you could be a Stark in name too.”

Gods! That was… All that she was offering him, that was all he had ever wanted.

There was a babe with red hair in her arms now, welcoming him home after winter was over. He had seen that child before, in another life, but he had pushed the thought aside long ago. Along with not being a bastard, along with being a true Stark.

And she was offering him all that. All that, without expecting anything in return.

“It doesn’t have to be a real marriage, you could still be with other-“

He wouldn’t listen anymore, his lips crashing against hers as she gasped in surprise, Jon’s arms around her waist pulling her closer and closer, until their hearts beat as one, as they were meant to.

“I’ll never want another. And I’m not marrying you for your titles, Sansa” he vowed, his lips against her jaw, then climbing down the column of her neck. “Never, do you understand me?”

“Then marry me for whatever reason you wish” she pleaded, her fingers caressing his dark curls and making him sigh again.

“I will. For you, I will. Only for you, Sansa” he swore, capturing her lips again. “Gods, that’s such a pretty name…”

She chuckled, rubbing her cold nose against his.

“You remembered.”

“I told that to Gilly once. She was so scared, I thought it would sooth her.”

He was a boy still, then.

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

The man was more alive than ever.

Sansa’s delicate hands went to his hips, her fingers toying with the hem of his tunic. She pursed her lips together, and her skin was red again.

“I’ve never seen a man- A man’s body” she mumbled, as if to herself.

Jon gulped thickly, raising his arms over his head.

She needed only say a word. He’d give her anything she asked for. Everything. His heart, his soul.

Sansa pulled his tunic up his body, and his breath caught in his throat. She would see them. She would see all the angry, ugly scars in his chest. But she had let him undress her, and he couldn’t say no to her. If she was disgusted and run away afterwards that was her choice.

Her mouth hang open, and there were tears in Sansa’s eyes, Jon’s shirt falling absently from her fingers.

Jon looked away, to the heavy curtains behind her. Anywhere but her.

A hand, a warm delicate hand brushed against his stomach, making him shiver. There was curiosity in her touch, mostly that, but also gentleness. And sadness, such sadness filling her eyes too.

“So this is what they did to you” she whispered, the tips of her fingers tracing the dark red scar that went from his belly button to his lowest rib. Jon remembered the awful sound the steel had made crashing against the bone.

Another one, over his hip, one that disappeared into his breeches. That had been the first one.

She looked at him, both hands on his chest now, and a tear fell down her face.

“I’m so sorry, Jon.”

He crushed that tear with his thumb.

“I’m not, Sansa. It brought me here.”

_It brought me to you. I would have died a thousand deaths if in the end I would still find you._

“You’ve seen the marks on my body too. They didn’t break us. They tried but they didn’t, Jon.”

Sansa leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to the ghastly mark over his heart. Jon groaned, and now his eyes prickled too. He would have died a thousand times for this.

“There’s more of them, more than those you’ve seen already.” She turned around, offering him the back of her bodice. “Take it off, Jon. Please.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

What horrors would she show him still? What had that monster done to her?

If they hadn’t burnt Ramsay’s body he would have asked the Red Woman to bring him back and punch him until he had died. He should have done that. But Ramsay wasn’t his monster to kill.

Jon undid the laces slowly, his fingers shaking, Sansa’s shoulders rising and falling as she wrapped her arms around herself.

And then his rough fingers were tracing the thin white marks on her back, like they had whipped her. His nostrils flared, realising he hadn’t been there to protect her then. That he would never be able to erase those marks from her skin, from her memory. Sansa let her bodice fall to the ground with a broken sigh.

But something else bewitched him. Her creamy skin. Those little freckles over her right shoulder. The soft dip of her waist. The roundness of her hips and her bum. And she had chosen to show him all this. Not only what she thought was ugly and harsh. The beauty, the wonder underneath it all, that a woman had survived so much abuse only to rise above everyone else.

Daenerys had sought his admiration through it. People had tried to justify her actions with it. But that wasn’t the only way to live. Sansa had gone through hell and back and yet there she stood, still believing in goodness and rightness.

“You’re beautiful.”

Jon realised the words had escaped his mouth a moment too late.

She turned around, her arms at her sides, her back straight as she faced him. There was no fear in her gentle face. No shame, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her naked body to his, her hard nipples brushing against Jon’s skin and making him groan when her mouth found his.

He was only human. He was only human and she was a goddess.

No, not a goddess. Gods were cruel. Gods were stupid, making an innocent child suffer so much for the sins of others.

She was Sansa.

“And you are the most handsome man I have ever seen” she mumbled.

In the blink of an eye he was tossing her on the furs, a surprised giggle escaping Sansa’s mouth, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. Jon kicked his boots off clumsily, almost tripping over her in the process. But his fingers halted at the cords of his breeches, still unsure if he should do this. If he should drag her along with him to the darkest depths of his sinful desire.

She was pure, so pure and good, and someone as dirty as him shouldn’t stain such a creature.

“Do you want me, Jon?” Sansa asked, propping herself on her elbows and making her round breasts bounce and his cock jolt.

How could he not? Seven Hells, he had tried not to. He had, he had, and still his dreams were filled with red locks splayed over his pillow. The same strands that now hid part of her chest from his view. His eyes dragged down her body, unable to settle for a spot in particular, be it the top of her thigh, her delicate ankle still covered by her wool stockings, that finger toying with the furs under her.

How would he not?

He gave a short nod, as if he had just told her the North was hers, and pulled his breeches down along with his smallclothes.

He would drown himself in her. He would lose himself in her, in her glow, and maybe he would come out clean of all his sins. Or maybe this would be the greatest of them all, and maybe he would drag them both to the darkest depths of hell, but Jon couldn’t care less. As long as they were together nothing could break them.

Sansa’s eyes grew wide, and Jon felt his chest swell with pride, standing there before her, letting her see him, all of him, for the first time. There was no trace of disgust or fear in her bright blue eyes. No pity, either. It was something else, something he didn’t dread. Something Jon had truly yearned for all these moons. All these years, if he gave it enough thought.

Wonder.

He crawled up her body, kissing her lips as he pressed his hand flat to the mattress, supporting his weight so he wouldn’t crush her. Sansa’s fingers brushed against his back, coyly at first but digging on his flesh as Jon’s free hand caught the back of her knee, gently hooking her leg around his hip.

“I won’t hurt you, Sansa. I promise” he swore again, dipping his free hand between her thighs.

She gasped, her body shivering to his touch, her hips bucking to meet his movements. Her thigh rubbed his cock with each thrust, making Jon fear he would spill too soon, like a green boy.

“I know, Jon” she whispered against his ear, her voice low and deep and sending shivers down his spine as she clawed at his back. “I know. I know you won’t.”

He rubbed her nub as he slowly pumped two fingers inside of her, making sure she would be slick enough for him.

_Like a baby seal._

Jon almost chocked, recalling Tormund’s words. But he had been right. That was the right way to do it. With patience and care, paying attention to each small groan, finding out what she liked. He lowered his head, capturing one perky nipple between his lips, and this time a loud moan filled the room, Sansa’s fingers tugging at his curls as she writhed beneath him.

Jon took his cock in hand, rubbing its head up and down her slit, deciding she should be ready by now, his mouth still on her breast as he looked at her for permission.

“Yes, Jon. Please.”

And her eyes weren’t bright blue anymore, but dark as a winter’s night when he entered her, slowly, as gently as he could, her sweet warmth engulfing him as he forced himself not to shove his cock all the way inside of her with a single snap of his hips like he desperately wanted to.

Somehow his lips had left her nipple, and now he was panting above her, Sansa’s breath tangling with his own, her eyes roaming through his face, as if she waited for a sign.

“Alright?” he all but panted, brushing a curl from her forehead.

His heart shrunk. Maybe this was all a dream, like many others before. Maybe he would wake up to a cold empty bed and a painfully hard cock again, cursing the day Ned Stark – and not someone else – had fathered him.

She closed her eyes, and rotated her hips, making Jon growl this time.

No, this was better than any of his dreams. She was warmer, her skin was softer, her lips redder and her tits more perfect than he had ever imagined. He run his thumb over her hard nipple, pulling his hips back and pushing his cock inside of her again, and Sansa arched her head back, rolling her eyes as the prettiest moan he had ever heard escape her lips.

He kissed her neck, muffling his own groan against her skin as he thrusted again and again, their moans and the wet sounds of their flesh mingling with the soft crackling of the fire and the cold winds outside.

Winter was here, but it didn’t feel like it. It was summer. Summer again, with Sansa writhing under him, her smooth breasts brushing against his hard chest with each snap of his hips, her eyes bluer than the summer sky and brighter than the summer sun, her warm hands roaming down his body as he almost purred in delight.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I-“ she stuttered, her fingers brushing against the top of his buttocks and disappearing all too soon.

He chuckled. He was inside of her, and she was making all sorts of beautiful bashful noises and yet she thought it wasn’t proper to touch his arse. And somehow it filled his heart with joy, realising that there were still some parts of her – some truly adorable parts of her – that she had managed to keep all through the horrors she had endured. That there was still some innocence left in her.

“It’s alright, sweetheart” he assured her, a wide smile on his lips as she closed her eyes, blushing furiously. But then words were eluding him too. “You can- I mean, if you want to-“

She bit her lip, but dragged her hand down his back again, giving his cheek a gentle squeeze. Jon groaned, pushing into her faster now, her touch gently urging him forward.

He looked down at her, needing to see if this was as amazing for her as it was for him. But his own body casted long shadows all over her, hiding almost all of her from his gaze, and he realised this was wrong. It had been right, that one time, when he really didn’t wish to see too much of his partner, wanting it to be over as soon as possible. But now it was unacceptable.

He wanted to see her. All of her. Her hair flapping in the firelight as she threw her head back when she peaked. He wanted to see it. He needed to see it.

In a heartbeat Jon had curled his arm under her back, pulling her to his lap as he sat up, and then leaned back against the mattress until she was the one on top of him, whimpering softly as she run her hand over her forehead, pulling her hair back.

“So beautiful” he mumbled, the flames dancing around her body, her tits bouncing as she moved against him, and all forms of coherent thought leaving Jon’s mind with the low beastly growl that left his lips then.

“Jon, I… I don’t know what to do” she whimpered, her hands on his chest supporting her.

He raised his knees, to give himself some leverage, and curled his fingers around her hips, gently guiding her.

“With me, Sansa” he whispered, thrusting up and pulling her down against him.

She moaned again, and her fingers brushed against his nipples and, gods! That felt so good, too! Almost as good as her moist cunt around him, squeezing him with each thrust and he didn’t know how she had learnt to do it, but it felt amazing.

“With me, sweetheart” he mumbled again, his knuckles white against her skin as he tried to maintain some sort of self-restraint. “Are you close, Sansa?”

He was. He was, he could feel his balls tightening, but he needed her to peak first. After this he wouldn’t have the energy to give her what she deserved, so she needed to be the first.

She threw her head back, leaning against his knees as she run her fingers through her hair again, a wave of red flames floating around her, her skin painted copper and gold and he had never seen something more beautiful. Like she was a creature made of fire, some fire goddess of the tales of old. But Sansa was ice and steel, and all he had grown to yearn for.

“Close?” she repeated, frowning at him.

“To peaking… To what… What happened before… When I kissed you. Fuck!”

He screwed his eyes shut, thinking she would slap him for cursing, but instead she howled like the she-wolf she was, and Jon’s fingers searched for her nub again, encouraging her.

It didn’t took much effort, her walls fluttering around his cock and her mouth open in a silent cry as she peaked, her nails scraping his chest, probably adding some new marks to it, but those Jon wouldn’t mind. He would look at them with pride, and a smile on his face, memories of the beautiful woman finding her pleasure with him keeping him warm on lonely nights.

A plunged up a couple of times more, and his mind went foggy, his eyelids heavy as his body tensed, his cock pulsing inside of her as he filled her with his seed and hoped – hoped! – it would take root and they would have a babe to hold in their arms after the war. That there was a world where they could be together after all. Where Sansa could be his real wife, the mother of his children. His lady, his queen.

_My queen._

She had her face hidden on the crook of his neck, somehow, her clammy body shielding him from the cold that now froze his sweaty skin. Jon clawed at the furs under them, his head still hanging from the edge of the bed, and covered them, at least to some degree.

“We need to convince them this is a political marriage” she mumbled against his skin, her hand brushing his hair and lulling him to sleep. “From what I’ve learnt these days with her I doubt she would take a rejection lightly.”

Jon curled one arm around her, and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

He had no wish to discuss these matters right now. His mind was still covered in bliss and he couldn’t think properly with his cock still inside of her.

But Sansa was right.

“I’ll ask Sam and Bran to tell her I’m Lyanna’s bastard.” Another lie. Another lie to pave his way. But if that meant he could have to woman he loved that was all he needed. “That what I promised her wasn’t mine to give.”

And he didn’t meant just the North.

“And that the only way to keep my promise to her is if I regain the Northmen’s trust by marrying the true Queen in the North, my cousin.”

He kissed the top of Sansa’s head, and the boy he once was felt hope again. For once. Just this once.

“Do you think she’ll believe it?”

_She’ll believe anything I tell her by now. That was the whole point of it, wasn’t it?_

“It will have to be enough. For now.”

Just like Sansa’s slow regular breaths against his ear as she drifted to sleep in his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise in advance to all the Dany's fans, because I know I'm being mean to her and she probably doesn't deserve all of this hate, but it needs to be there for undercover!Jon to make some sense. Also, bear in mind that no one (Tyrion or Dany) saw fit to tell anyone about the Tarlys deaths, okay? Nor did news about the Wall melting down reach Winterfell as of yet. Those are problems for later.

Jon stood before his mother's cold statue.

So this was all he had left of her. There was no high born lady, no tavern wench, crying over her long lost babe anywhere.

This was all he had. Cold stone under Winterfell's grounds. Next to uncle Brandon and grandfather Rickard. Next to those the Mad King had murdered. Next to Eddard Stark, the man Jon would always consider his father.

He didn’t care if Rhaegar had married his mother in secret or if he was the Targaryen trueborn heir. He couldn’t care less. Eddard Stark had been his father. He would always be his father.

And he had no mother because the man that had put his seed in her was obsessed with prophecies and silly dreams. If he had let her go… If he had let her brother take her North like he intended to, maybe, just maybe…

But now his mother was just a statue. A sad story of a young woman – a girl still – bewitched by a grown man. And somehow theirs was meant to be this great love story that sparked a war. A war built on a lie, according to Bran.

No. Aerys’s madness and Rhaegar’s obsession had started that war, and those weren’t lies. Just something people chose to skirt over, because it sounded less romantic than the young wolf fleeing her brute of a fiancé to the arms of her gallant dragon prince. Just like they forgot about Elia Martell, left to die in King’s Landing with her children while her husband was more concerned with songs of ice and fire and princes that were promised and naming his new-born child like his other son, as if little Aegon had never existed.

Theon and him had decided that maybe one could be both a Stark and another thing. Jon would always be more of a Stark than anything else.

"You look like her" Arya mumbled, stroking his shoulder and bringing him down to earth. "I mean, you're a lot uglier than her, but still. You have her nose."

He chuckled, thankful that at least someone didn't feel sorry for him. For once.

"You are heir to the Iron Throne, now" Bran reminded him. “Your claim is stronger than Daenerys’s. Not only because of the male line. You grew up on the right side of the Narrow Sea, you’ve proved yourself a capable leader…”

Jon stopped listening.

He didn't want it. Just like his father - uncle - hadn't wished to follow King Robert south to be his hand. He had no wish to play that unforgiving game that had taken away so many he loved. In spite of that, he had found himself playing it when Sansa tugged at his hand over the table. And for her he had played. He had gambled and won and gambled and lost too.

This… This wasn't just playing anymore. They had thrown some new pieces on his lap, a crown over his head and now a throne made of swords under his arse like it was some sort of advantage when in the end it didn’t matter. The Night King was ridding south and they'd all be dead before that silly contest about who should sit on the throne at Kings Landing was over.

"Would you let me grow old here, instead, if there was away?” he whispered, more to himself than anything, and a soft hand enclosed his left one, a thumb gently rubbing it. He took a long breath, drawing some strength from it. Dreaming. Dreaming like the gullible boy he had killed long ago. He _thought_ he had killed. But no.

His eyes were on a different statue now. One that also looked like him. And like Arya, and Robb and Bran and Rickon. Like Sansa too.

Arya’s hand on his shoulder tightened.

“Of course you could stay, what kind of question is that?” she roared, her voice echoing through the crypts and probably waking up the dead. Sansa hushed her promptly, and a shy smile crept on Jon’s face as he recalled a happier, simpler time none of them had cherish back then.

Bran had wanted to climb towers and ended up unable to walk. Arya to not be a lady anymore and then they had taken away her own identity from her. Sansa to marry a prince and become queen just to have her innocence beaten and shredded. As for him… He had wanted to be a hero and his brothers had killed him. And his father had wanted to do his duty just to end up dead. Robb and Lady Catelyn to avenge Lord Eddard just to end up dead too.

And Rickon…

No. That death weighted on his shoulders, and his shoulders alone. Maybe if Jon had… Maybe if…

He shook his head. There was no use dwelling in issues of the past. He had to look ahead. Never behind. The path behind him was dark. The road ahead didn’t seem any brighter, but at least now he had something else. Something he didn’t have before, when that first knife had stabbed him.

He had his family. They might not come from the same mother or father. But they were his family nevertheless.

“There’s a storm ahead of us” he mumbled, his eyes scanning Ned Stark’s face for his permission too. Jon would have done it the right after agreeing to marry Sansa, if he could. But there were increasingly fewer and fewer things right with their world with each rising of the sun. “The bannermen are angry-“

“And rightly so” Arya scoffed.

Jon rolled his eyes, but said nothing. She was absolutely right about it.

"She won't take it lightly, Jon" Bran said and now he was looking at Lord Eddard too.

Sansa took a long breath and her hand on his tensed.

Jon felt his ears burn.

“Did you… Hmm… Did you see that too?” he muttered, his throat dry.

For once, just once and a mere blink of an eye, there was a ghost of a smile on Bran’s face. And now Jon’s face was scorching.

“No. What for?” Bran said, his voice empty. “But I know about your plan. It might work. But I see her plans too. It won’t be easy.”

“What in the seven hells are you talking about?” Arya yelled again, and Sansa must be so mortified she didn’t even bother shutting her up this time. “Jon?”

“He wants to know if it’s alright to marry Sansa.”

The crypts fell silent. As if no one but the dead were there.

Jon’s heavy breathing echoed on his ears, deafening him as Sansa’s hand slipped from his and she seemed more interested on the inexistent wrinkles in her skirt. Arya remained exactly like she was, frozen. Like the statues before her.

“You really need to stop speaking like that” Sansa mumbled, her eyes now on the perfectly stitched edge of her sleeve.

“You would marry him? You would do that?” Arya whispered, her wide eyes on her sister. “You would marry Jon so he could be a Stark just like the rest of us? So he could stay? So the Dragon Queen wouldn’t take him away south with her or the lords kick him out? You would do that?”

No. No, that wasn’t why he was marrying her. He was marrying her because he didn’t want Sansa to marry someone else. But if even Arya saw a logical reason – though there was hardly one – for that union, maybe Daenerys would see it too. He hoped she would see it.

“Arya, that’s not why we’re-“ Jon tried.

“We need the Dragon Queen to believe it’s just a political union” Sansa cut. “The only way to appease the Northmen after Jon bent the knee to her. After it is known he is aunt Lyanna’s – and not father’s – son. The only way she could keep some influence through him over the North.”

“But she wouldn’t. Not really.” Arya shook her head, and then her eyes were on Jon’s. Menacing. He was yet to face her in swordfight, but he was certain she could easily defeat him. “Right? You’re with us, aren’t you, Jon?”

Jon nodded, and Sansa’s hand crawled to his again, her fingers intertwining with his.

“And you’ll be a good husband to her, you hear me?” Arya pointed her finger at him, and this time Bran even went so far as to chuckle.

“She has a list” his younger brother jested.

“You don’t want to be on that list” Sansa added.

Jon smiled, looking at the young woman with a crown of stone roses over her head.

And for a little while he could feel a warm breeze ruffling his hair against his ears, the sweet perfume of winter roses filling the air like it was spring again.

* * *

The rider arrived the next morning, a slender figure half dead in a dark horse. Tyrion had run to the gates the moment the men fell from his ride, recognising the figure before everyone else did.

Daenerys had been right about him all along. He was loyal to his family still. Blood cried louder than bent knees.

No. To Jon it didn't. Or maybe part of his blood was thicker than the other. Ice was thicker than fire after all.

And yet it burnt all the same.

The Dragon Queen dug her fingers in the wood parapet of the battlements.

That wasn't her place. That was Sansa's place, like it had been Lord Eddard's and Lady Catelyn's. Not a Targaryen queen's. No Targaryen should be allowed to walk the same steps as all the Kings of Winter.

"Fetch maester Wolkan. Or Lord Samwell Tarly or Lady Gilly, I don't care" Sansa shouted, running swiftly down the stone steps, her skirts raised to her ankles as she too approached the rider.

Brienne and Gendry caught the man's waist with their thick arms as he fell down his horse, carrying his weight on their shoulders.

"He killed father! He tried to kill Bran!" Arya screeched, running behind Sansa, and Jon had to rush behind her too, before she could unsheathe her sword and slay Jaime Lannister right there.

He reached for her shoulder, but she wasn't that skinny girl anymore, and soon enough she was holding her own brother at sword point.

"And you!" she yelled, her eyes wide and threatening. He held his hands in front of him, trying to appease her. "I love you, Jon, but you already brought the Mad King's daughter here! So step aside!"

Through the corner of his eyes he could see them taking the Kingslayer inside. He was safe from his sister’s wrath. For now.

Jon released a broken sigh.

“Arya, there’s no time for this” he said, as gently as possible, as if she was a wolf, ready to jump at his throat. She would, if needed be.

His fist dwarfed the tiny hand around the pommel as he slowly pushed it down. _Needle_. She still had it. The King’s Road, King’s Landing, Harrenhall, the Narrow Sea, Bravos. She had kept it through it all.

“We can’t do nothing” she muttered. “We already have a murderer’s daughter under father’s roof. We don’t have room for another traitor.”

_Traitor..._

“Dany- Daenerys is not to blame for her father’s crimes.”  Arya sheathed her sword, and Jon finally released his breath.

_Aye, but she has crimes of her own. And so do I._

“I don’t like her” Arya muttered, cleaning the snow from the balustrade and propping herself on the stone.

“We need her” Jon said, an arm around his sister’s shoulders.

He would have thanked the gods, if he believed in them still, for keeping her alive. For keeping the three of them alive. Sansa, Arya, Bran, they had all faced different challenges, different monsters. The paths they had threaded being nothing alike, and yet…

_Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?_

Jon smiled sadly. Maybe the boy he had been knew something after all. Though not of it. Certainly not the darkest, most twisted parts of it.

“And she’s not that bad. She’s just…” He searched for the words, but he was never good with them. “She’s just a little misguided, that’s all. She wants to be a good queen, she just doesn’t know how.”

That was only half a lie.

“She’s in love with you. And she’s pretty to.”

Jon huffed, looking away. Perhaps now Cersei Lannister herself would cross Winterfell’s gates and wreak havoc over their heads. And a smile crept on his face, wondering to which sister should he leave her to. Sansa had suffered more in her hands but Arya had her list. And a temper.

“I know why you’re marrying Sansa, but you don’t need to worry about her” Arya mumbled, curling her gloved hand around his, resting between them on the stone. Jon swallowed thickly. He hadn’t been completely honest with Arya, but still… Tyrion had figured it out, so maybe she had too. “She’s tough. And I can always look after her. I won't let someone like Littlefinger touch a hair of hers ever again.”

“I know.”

“You could go south with the Dragon Queen, and get your throne. After the war, I mean” she added. “If you wanted to. It’s not like father or Robb’s ghost would come after you or anything.”

“I… That’s not… Arya, that’s not the whole truth of it either” Jon stuttered, scratching his beard.

It wasn’t just his secret to tell. But still, Arya was his sister, and Bran knew, of course. Just because she wasn’t the Three Eyed Raven it wasn’t fair to keep her in the dark about it. And there was no reason to. Arya wouldn't betray them.

Jon looked around. There were only a couple of guards in the courtyard with them, probably out of hearing distance.

“I love her.” He took a long breath, waiting for Arya to probably point her sword at him again.

“Of course you do” Arya scoffed, shrugging. “She was a little cruel to you when you were children, but-“

“No, Arya. Not like that.”

His sister took her hand from his, and clutched it with the other on her lap, taking a long breath. Arya shook her head, looking at her knees, as if what he just said was impossible. If it made no sense.

It still made little sense for Jon. But he had come to accepted it the moment he had wrapped his hands around Baelish's throat. Was certain of it when he had finally kissed her.

“Fine.”

That was the only word to come out of Arya’s mouth.

“Fine?” Jon insisted, but he was smiling, joy bursting in his chest at Arya’s permission.

He hadn’t thought for a moment he would need it, but he did. He would have asked Eddard Stark or Robb. Seven hells, he would have asked Lady Catelyn too, if needed be! But none of them were there anymore. And all he needed to hear was Sansa’s voice, nothing else.

But still, now Arya knew too. And she was ‘fine’ with it. Apparently.

“Aye, fine. If that’s what you both want…” Arya said, her voice barely a whisper. “At least we won’t lose Winterfell to some greedy pompous lord or anything. At least you fight for us.”

“Thank you. And I promise you I’ll never stop fighting for you” Jon vowed, clutching Arya’s hands between his, and she smiled at him. "For us."

* * *

They put Ser Jaime in one of the chambers, and Sansa fought Arya over tying him up or not. In the end Arya gave up, convinced such a weak man couldn't go anywhere or be a threat to anyone. But behind her skull she was probably thinking about how they would judge him and then properly execute him, though Sansa gave her a whole speech about being sure cutting heads off would be very satisfying but that wasn't the way one got people to work together.

Jon hoped Daenerys would understand that as easily as Arya seemed to have.

“I knew we couldn’t trust her. I knew it!” Daenerys yelled, her eyes shooting sparks everywhere – mostly at Tyrion – as she paced the study. “And now what? Now Cersei will take what I had already freed from her claws. All that work for nothing...”

_What? What had you taken from her, Daenerys? Carts of wheat? A handful of soldiers? The Reach, that was already yours form the beginning?_

Jon leaned against the wall behind him, taking a long breath. He looked over Sansa’s shoulder and she shook her head, searching through the papers in front of her, on the desk. The lord’s desk. Lady, now.

“We have food stored for all our men and the northerners who would eventually take refuge at Winterfell” she said, her fingers scrolling down what Jon decided was a list, though he couldn’t make up the words. “We didn’t take into account possible southern refugees too. We can't guarantee safe passage from the carts from the Reach. And we don’t know how long it will take to defeat the Night King.”

“We weren’t talking about the Night King” Daenerys reminded them, smacking her hands against the desk, her eyes blown wide, her cheeks flush. Sansa didn’t even move, didn't even blink, but Arya already had her hand around the pommel of her sword, and so did Lady Brienne and Ser Davos, the three of them gathered near the only window.

“No, your grace. You weren’t” Sansa calmly said, leaving the papers and straightening her shoulders as she clutch her hands together over the table. “But perhaps we should.”

“I made a deal with your brother, Lady Stark.” Daenerys was looking at Jon now, and he gulped. He still needed to tell her about his real status. But alas, there hadn’t been an opportunity yet.

More like Jon was actively hiding from her. He hadn’t found the right words to tell the Dragon Queen that whatever had happened between them on that ship would never happen again without fearing she would ride south again. Or worse. Burn someone.

“A truce, and I would ride North” the queen continued. “That deal was broken.”

“By my sister, not King Jon” Tyrion corrected, tugging at the sleeve of Daenerys heavy dress.

For a moment Jon thought she would slap him, her face purple with anger, her chest heaving furiously as her eyes trailed down her arm to Tyrion's hand.

“You stay quiet! This is all your fault!” she spat, yanking her arm from his grip and turning her back on them all.

“Your grace, I think now is hardly the time to blame anyone” Davos tried, his tone almost calmer than Sansa’s. “It’s the time to prepare for the incoming storm. We all have the same enemies.”

“We’re trapped between Cersei’s army and the Night King, but at least Ser Jaime could warn us. She won’t take us off-guard” Sansa added, shuffling through her papers again. “Maybe there’s enough time to warn my cousin, Lord Robin Arryn-”

“Does he have enough men to hold Cersei back?” Daenerys asked, taking a seat at the other side of the room.

That used to be Sansa’s seat, back when Jon was a real king. Before he had destroyed everything by riding south. They used to talk until the darkest hours of night. Some nights Sansa brought her sewing, some nights Jon brought his ale. Whatever kept their nightmares at bay. Sometimes one of them fell asleep on their chair, just to wake up covered in the other's cloak. If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the winter roses on Sansa's furs.

But now wasn't the right moment.

“They don’t. The Knights of the Vale are here” Jon said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“But still, we could warn them and they could run before she comes for them” Sansa explained, searching the drawers for ink and a quill. “They could come here. We will fight better together than with our forces scattered around half the realm.”

“That’s true, my lady, your grace” Davos agreed, nodding. Just like the others.

All except for Daenerys, who rested her forehead on her hand.

“And who will defend the Eyrie, then?”

Jon took a long breath, preparing himself to state the obvious. She would be less angry if it came from his mouth. Or at least he hoped so.

“No one, your grace” Tyrion explained, before Jon could open his mouth. “The plan, as I understand, is to let Cersei’s army march as far North as she can, before they encounter our forces in all their might. In a field they haven't fought on before. Less prepared for the cold winds than our forces, I'm assuming.”

“That sounds like a plan” Arya said, standing behind her sister and looking over her shoulder at the small map forgotten in a corner of the desk. “Who holds the Riverlands? With house Frey extinct and all. Did the Lannisters send a garrison there?”

Jon bit back his laughter. Arya had told her siblings about what she had done, and though he didn’t believe it at first after a few days with his sister he realised it had to be true. There wasn't another simpler explanation for the fact that a whole house had vanished overnight. And it warmed his heart that Robb had been avenged.

“By law it belongs to Sansa.”

The air in the room got thicker and colder as it fell silent with Bran’s words.

Daenerys shifted on her seat uncomfortably and Jon pursed his lips, fearing they would be discussing who the rightful ruler was all over again. And, as usual, there was no time for that either.

“Your grace” Bran called, his voice as devoid of emotion as it did more often than not now. “If the Night King wins it won’t matter which lands belong to whom. If the dead win there won’t be anyone left to rule over. If the dead win it doesn’t matter-“

“Who sits on the Iron Throne” she cut, a sweet smile on her face. Too sweet. “I know. All you Starks sound alike.”

“Well, we didn’t send any men to strengthen Riverrun’s garrison. Do you think we should?” Sansa’s asked, a worried tone on her voice as she turned towards Jon with a frown.

He wished he had a simple answer to that. He wished he had better answers to everything.

“We don’t know who’s truly controlling the Riverlands” Jon sighed, his arms falling at his sides. “We cannot send any men there, it’s too reckless.”

“Like you said, my lady, we need them all here” Brienne said, with a sharp nod.

Silence again, as the room seemed to ponder other options.

“So it belongs to Cersei too, technically?” Daenerys asked, standing up again. “Almost half the county belongs to her, then. Dorne, the Crownlands, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Iron Isles-“

“The Iron Isles belong to Theon” Jon felt the need to remind her. “And he’s with us.”

_He owes us that much. He owes Sansa that much._

“And pray, where is he, my lord?” Daenerys mocked, waving her hands in the air.

“Your grace” Arya corrected in a whisper, and Jon clutched her shoulder, hoping she would keep quiet.

“He’ll be here” Sansa declared, not leaving room for doubt. “When the time comes he’ll be here and the Iron Fleet with him.”

Jon looked at the window, hoping he was as certain of that as Sansa. Outside, the wind twirl the snow around, howling through the cracks in the stone. He could almost make up the sound of a wolf, not far away from there. Ghost must be near.

But wolves didn’t trust dragons. Or their mothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahah! 5 chapters my ass because now I have enough plot in my head to write an entire season 8, so... I don't know where this is taking us or anything, so just hope you stay with me, okay?  
> Big hugs to anyone and thank you so much for your awesome feedback!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who love Daenerys be warned: she's not treated well on this one; not because I hate her particularly and felt the need to beat her but because a) the Northerners probably do and b) Jon wants to get rid of her already, so he does some bad things because he's a person with flaws and stuff.

She peeled herself from him with a soft sigh, and he felt cold. Empty, as Sansa walked to the small basin by the fire, his eyes mesmerized on the elegant sway of her hips.

This was a dangerous game they were playing. No more than a handful of days had passed since she had first slept on his bed, but it was as if they couldn’t spend their nights alone anymore. Like they had stirred dying, forgotten embers.

_No. I hadn’t forgotten them. I hadn’t forgotten her._

The night after that one she had been in her study, her head buried in her hand as she finished writing yet another letter to invite yet another lord or lady and their people to Winterfell before the war.

She was tired. So very tired. Ruling was much more difficult when one actually had to do it.

Jon had kissed her forehead and asked if he could be of any help. And she had invited him to her bed instead, without even blinking. The next one she had come willingly to him, with the excuse of wishing him a good night. And he had woke up with her warm body tangled around him, her soft steady breathing against his neck.

He wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the column of her neck as he took the wet cloth from her hands. He had made the mess, it was only right he cleaned it up.

“Marry me tomorrow” he pleaded, gently scrubbing her inner thigh. “Just you and me. Some witnesses too, we’ll need those. Arya and Bran. Brienne and Davos and Sam and Gilly, maybe.”

If they kept going like this he would put a babe in her, eventually. And their time was running out. Cersei was marching north and the Night King was marching south. Sansa wouldn’t have anyone else besides him, and he would need to leave anytime now, and the North would need an heir, not a bastard. And they needed each other. _He_ needed her. He needed something to long for when he was surrounded by darkness and cold. For his wife, sewing woollen shirts for their army by the fire, her belly swelling as their child grew in it.

_Wife._

_I want it. I have always wanted it._

She curled her arm around him, spreading her legs to give him more room. He rubbed the cloth against her folds, and her low moan made his cock twitch against her buttock.

“You know that can’t be” she whispered, a deep sadness in her eyes, her mouth searching and finding his. “Remember what happened to Robb. There’s too much at stake.”

_Smarter than Robb._

He was trying.

But like maester Aemon had once said everything – wits, honour, duty – was just wind and words, compared to a woman’s love. And Jon was only human. That was his greatest glory and his greatest tragedy.

He hoped it wouldn’t be their downfall, in the end.

He gathered her in his arms, laying her down on the bed again, and buried his face in her cunt, his tongue pulling all sorts of delicious sounds from her mouth.

* * *

Sam shook his head, pouring Jon another mug of ale.

Jon had missed him too. Sam was his brother, maybe not by blood, but a brother still. And he needed a brother right now. One that was a more in touch with the real world, and not an ethereal being from the old stories, like Bran.

If he was being honest, he didn’t understand what his younger brother was saying half the time. But perhaps he didn’t need to. Perhaps that was never the point of their exchanges.

“I know you” Sam said, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stannis offered you exactly what you’ll get by marrying her and still you said no to him, so that’s not it.”

Jon felt his face burn, a smile creeping on his face before he could bite his cheeks. How many times was it necessary for him to have this conversation? Would he have to confess his greatest sin to the lords as well?

“I love her” he muttered, leaning back on his chair and stretching his legs towards the fire. “Don’t look at me like that! I know it’s bad-“

Sam punched his shoulder, and they were boys again, teasing each other about knowing where to put it.

“It’s pretty bad, if it makes you behave like a fool” Sam teased, raising his mug as if he was toasting, his cheeks redder than ever, a wide smile on his lips. “At least you’re not your usual brooding self, and for that I’m thankful.”

Jon raised his mug too and slapped Sam’s back.

_If only there wasn’t a war to fight outside… Our children could grow up together, here. Sam could teach them to read and write, and Sansa could teach them to sew and sing. And I would never teach them how to fight with swords. There would be no use for it anymore._

“So the papers Gilly and I found – the ones we’ve already shown you – clearly state that Rhaegar married Lyanna. There’s no mention of a son” Sam explained, crossing his arms over his now much smaller belly. Wartime took its toll on everyone.

Jon let his shoulders fall, his arms hanging limp at the sides of his chair.

“So there’s no proof that I’m her son. It’s all based on speculation and we would have to disclose the Rhaeger bit too.”

“Don’t lose hope just yet.” Sam rested his large hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Your father – uncle, I think would be more accurate now – wasn’t the only one to survive the events at the Tower of Joy. Howland Reed did too. He might know something.”

_Howland Reed…_

“He’s here. He’s here at Winterfell!” Jon yelled, almost jumping from his chair, pacing the room like a caged animal. “He could testify before the lords! Does he know about Rhaegar and Lyanna’s wedding?”

“No one knows about that. It’s just an entry about Rhaegar’s annulment on High Septon Maynard's private journal. I doubt anyone saw that before Gilly did” Sam said, taking another gulp from his mug. “Also, that doesn’t prove he married your mother.”

“So there isn’t a single piece of paper, a single document, that puts me in line to the Iron Throne? That could threaten Daenerys’s claim to it?”

He was hoping again. And praying to the gods, if he still believed in them.

“Not that we’re aware of, there isn’t” Sam confirmed, and Jon’s heart jumped to his throat.

He needed to convince Howland Reed to tell that story. That and Bran’s vision – at least a part of it – might just do the trick. He would be Lyanna’s bastard, by Arthur Dayne, by Oswell Went, by Gerold Hightower… Even if he was Rhaegar’s bastard it hardly posed a threat to Daenerys. She would have no reason to distrust him.

Ned Stark’s bastard could be King in the North. But a bastard – a known bastard – had never sat nor would ever sit on the Iron Throne.

“You love her” Sam muttered, shaking his head again. But then he burst out laughing. “Aren’t you a lucky bastard, Lord Snow?”

* * *

His heart drummed in his chest, Sansa’s hand holding his for merely a blink of an eye before it returned to her lap. She gave him a short nod, and so did Bran, sitting next to her, and so did Arya, next to Bran. The Wolves of Winterfell. Their pack.

Jon had given Daenerys his seat – he needed to give her at least some illusion of real power – but had warned her against being too intimate with him before his bannermen. They didn’t trust him after surrendering their kingdom to a southern queen – a Targaryen queen, on top of that. They would feel enraged if they knew theirs wasn’t just a political relationship.

At least that much was true, and it was enough for her to leave him alone ever since they had crossed Winterfell’s gates.

The white beast appeared before them, his paws making no sound on the stones, his red eyes fixed only on his brother’s. Jon heard the queen’s sharp intake of breath, her small hand white against the dark wood of her chair, and from the corner of his eye he could see Sansa smirking.

They might need Daenerys’s dragons. But Winterfell was a place for wolves. And even Ghost knew that, as he paced through the room, dwarfing every lord and lady and knight around him, until he hid himself under the table, his large head on Sansa’s lap as if Jon’s was too close to the mother of dragons.

_He knows. He knows we need him. Two dragons she may have, but she has no power here._

Jon took a long breath, looking at his left. She nodded at him, and he nodded back.

He faced the ones in front of him, like the day they had made him king, and the room fell silent. He was just as frightened then as he was now. But there was distrust in the Northerners’ eyes today. A scowl on their lips. Lyanna Mormont looked like she could rip his head from his shoulders. Arya and her would have been good friends, if they were closer in age. Jon feared the day his sister showed her some of her tricks. Maybe then they would succeed in killing him.

“My ladies, my lords” he started, and the room remained silent except for his loud heartbeat. Sansa’s foot nudged his under the table and Ghost licked his hand.

_He’s with me too._

He patted Ghost’s large head, drawing strength from it.

_I’m a wolf. I’ve always been a wolf. The man who fathered me doesn’t matter. My mother was a Stark, and so was my uncle, the only father I knew. I’ll always be a wolf._

“I know what I did wasn’t what you expected of me” he said, and took another long breath. Across the room, Ser Davos nodded at him, encouragingly. “I pledged our forces to queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

The Great Hall hummed with disapproving sounds, and Jon screwed his eyes shut, willing them all to shut up before the dragon queen would lose her temper.

“My lords. My ladies. Please.” Jon raised his hand, and the room fell silent again, his voice clearer this time. “Winter is here, and we cannot afford to lose lives fighting a war amongst ourselves. It’s time to make alliances, even though some of them cost us more than we would like to pay. The time for war isn’t a time for pride. Our chances of defeating the Night King are better now than those we had when I left for south.”

“Thanks to your lady sister, your grace!” Yohn Royce yelled, standing up.

“My lord, please” Sansa calmly demanded, and Lord Royce sat down again, his nostrils flaring.

_Traitor. Traitor. A thousand times a traitor._

He cast a look at Daenerys, and her eyes were shooting fire at those present. He clutched her hand on his, swallowing the bile in his throat.

_We all have parts to play on the war to come. And we must play them as best as we can._

This one would be finished in a few moments, no matter what happened. By now even Daenerys must be fully aware that any sort of alliance between them – aside from a military one – would be impossible in the eyes of the North. They didn’t trust him for bending the knee, and they would never trust her.

“Before I left, I left the North in her hands. And recent events have shown I can never – nor will I ever need to – take it from hers again.”

Daenerys’s hand on his tightened, her nails digging on his flesh, and there was an uproar on the room again.

Jon gestured at Howland Reed, sited on the front row on Jon’s left, and he stood up, his eyes scanning first the Stark table, then the crowd, not lingering on the southerner that was supposed to be their queen now.

“My king, my ladies, my lords.” His voice resounded through the stones, and Jon sat down again, Sansa’s hand clutching his, his fingers intertwining with hers as the hand on Daenerys’s returned to his lap. “This is a secret I had vowed to your lord father would follow me to my grave, King Jon. I would have sworn to your lady mother as well, had I not been too late for that.”

A hundred pairs of eyes grew wide.

Jon felt Sansa’s pulse quickening under the pulps of his fingers, his heart beating at the same impossible pace. He swallowed the heavy lump in his throat and licked his dry lips.

“Almost three and twenty years ago, as you know, Lady Lyanna Stark was found dying in the Tower of Joy. I was there, with her lord brother, and Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, Ser Mark Ryswell and Lord William Dustin” Lord Reed continued, and the room remained as silent as death itself. “Only two of us returned to our homes, unfortunately, and only two of us knew the truth of a secret that followed Lord Eddard Stark to his grave as it should have followed me.”

Silence still.

“But our king isn’t serving our best interest anymore, and I think it’s time to tell you all the truth. For this is a time for the living, and not the dead, and we named our king under false pretences.”

Gasps were heard from every direction. Mostly at his right.

_I lose my claim and she loses the North. And it’s not like she can just walk away from this room, or call her dragons now._

Jon felt the sting of guilt. She loved him. She truly loved him, and he had betrayed her too. He had lied to her, he had tangled her in his flimsy perilous web, and she had been caught. But he would have hurt more people, people he cared a great deal more than her, if he feared wounding her pride.

“What are you saying, my lord?” Lyanna Mormont asked, her pursed lips and raised chin gone for a mere moment. “We were aware we were naming a bastard, we weren’t tricked or fooled into naming Jon Snow our king. He might have betrayed us, or our expectations of him, but he didn’t lie to us when he made him king.”

Howland Reed gave her a sad smile.

“Aye, my lady, that much is true. For not even him was aware of this truth, until very recently. And I have our king’s permission to disclose it to you now.”

That was the bit the Starks had been more uncertain about. If Jon had given his permission to reveal who his mother was, then he was an active part of forfeiting his claim, surrendering it to another. To take a step back from the promise he had made Daenerys. But Lord Howland had assured him that was the only way the bannermen would accept it as the truth. Otherwise Howland Reed would be no more than a schemer, inventing things about their king to push him aside. And then Sansa had said Jon could always blame that on the ‘honourable fool’ when Daenerys wrath washed upon him.

He clutched her hand even tighter, wishing with all his might that would be enough. And that they could be married tomorrow and then he could leave for Castle Black like he had intended to. The dead were marching south, they had no time to waste.

“At the Tower of Joy, Lady Lyanna Stark died giving birth to a babe. A son.” Silence, as if everyone was hanging from Howland’s words. “A living son. A babe Lord Eddard brought home to raise at Winterfell as his natural son. To raise here, with Lady Catelyn’s children. To grow up like our late King Robb’s own brother.”

_King Robb. Did you hear that, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Your Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons? Not Torrhen Stark. Robb Stark, the last King in the North._

_My brother._

“We named Jon Snow our king believing he was Eddard Stark’s bastard son. And it is not so.”

Howland Reed closed his mouth, sitting down again.

There were whispers, tongues hissing all over the room.

A hand clawed at his elbow.

“You knew this. You knew this and you didn’t tell me” Daenerys spat as he looked at her.

“So King Jon is Lady Lyanna’s bastard son instead?” Larence Hornwood’s voice raised above all else’s as he stood up, and Jon didn’t have the time to answer Daenerys.

“That’s the truth, my lord” Bran spoke, his tone soft but still enough to shut everyone else. “I saw the events of which Lord Reed speaks. A dying lady with black hair and grey eyes. The smell of blood and winter roses. A babe, crying in her arms as she passed him to a young Eddard Stark. Lord Reed’s words are true.”

The voices raised again, and it was Jon’s turn to stand up.

“My ladies, my lords” he called. “As it is clear by now, I cannot keep the burden which you have put on my shoulders. I cannot hold what, by right, isn’t mine. My brother – cousin Bran wishes to forfeit his claim to Winterfell as well, and all his claims concerning the North. So naturally all the titles you have bestowed upon me shall pass to his next in line, his lady sister.”

He gestured towards Sansa, who gave a small sigh before she nodded.

“We should have made her queen since the beginning!” Wyman Manderly shouted, and Jon sat back. His work was done. “Lady Sansa has proven herself a capable ruler while the King in the North was away, selling our men to a southern… To another queen. A queen we did not choose.”

Jon pursed his lips, his fists tight over the table.

She might not have her dragons now. But when she had…

“My lords, I’m afraid it is not a matter of choosing.” Daenerys stood up, almost pushing her chair to the ground.

“My la- Your grace.” Lyanna Mormont stood too, facing the queen with that fierce look on her face. She was a child, a child who was yet to learn about fear. “With all due respect, but you are new here. You are not familiar to our ways. Yet. Ever since Torrhen Stark knelt we had had no kings. Until we chose Robb Stark, and then his bastard brother, now cousin. We chose our rulers. We chose Jon Snow to lead us. We didn’t choose Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

_She’ll burn us. She’ll burn us all._

“Your grace, as you can see, I gave you my word. But I can pledge no one but myself to your cause, as you can see now” Jon said, still sitting down, reaching for her hand. “But the North needs you just as much as you need the North.”

“And I’m sure we would all be more than happy to discuss this whole matter after the war with the Night King is over” Sansa said softly, as if she was afraid to scare the queen. To scare the dragon. But wolves – and bears, apparently – didn’t fear dragons. She looked at the ones in front of her. “I’m sure everyone can agree on that for now.”

There were mumbles of what Jon hoped was approval.

“Jon Snow said we needed powerful allies. Queen Daenerys is a powerful ally. Let her prove herself worthy of our allegiance” Lord Glover declared, his voice like thunder on everyone’s ears. “And let the North prove to the queen how it is better for her to have us as allies rather than enemies. Until then, the North shall know no queen but the Queen in the North, whose name is Stark!”

_She’ll burn us. Drogon and Rhaegal are not far away. She’ll burn us all. She’ll burn me first, but she’ll burn you all after that._

“I think, Lord Glover, you are forgetting a very important matter here” Lyanna Mormont said, squaring her shoulders. “Lady Stark has been Lady Lannister and Lady Bolton before she was Lady Stark again. Ladies, more than other women, need to marry. A lady might lose her claim to her lord husband. We might find ourselves in the hands of someone of the likings of Ramsay Bolton again.”

Sansa straightened her back too, preparing to speak. She had been expecting that matter to be brought forward. It was part of the plan too, a crucial part of their plan.

_Enough with the bright plans!_

If only she knew where bright plans could take you...

“My lords” said a voice, from the back, near the farthest wall. “My ladies. Lady Mormont. I think the very same matter that presents to you as a problem right now might as well be a very clean solution to it.”

All he heads turned to the voice, the crowd parting to let the speaker be seen.

Ser Davos pealed himself from the wall, uncrossing his arms.

“I was just a smuggler when I met the late King Stannis. I’m just a knight – the Onion Knight, they used to call me. Though I’m mostly retired by now” he said, his tone sure and clear. Like they had practiced. “I don’t know much about politics. Seven Hells! A couple of years ago I didn’t even know my letters!”

“What is the solution you propose, Ser Davos?” Lord Royce pressed.

Davos took a long breath and walked forward, so he stood in the middle of the Great Hall, where everyone could see him and hear him.

“You had a good king. He made mistakes, maybe to your eyes. But I followed him south, and I can assure you every decision he took was to protect his home. To protect the North.” He paused, waiting for everyone to contradict him. But no one dared. “Now you might be asking yourselves what in the Seven Hells does the Onion Knight by defending your former king. Nothing. I gain nothing. You, on the other hand, and we all, could gain a great deal if you could at least understand his reasons.”

“Speak at once, ser!” Lord Manderly shouted.

“You’re afraid you’ll lose your kingdom to another lord. Someone who might not care for the North as much as the Starks have. Then ask your lady – your new queen – to marry someone who does. Someone who has forgotten his own pride to keep you safe. To try his best to win this war. Someone who has already forfeit any rights he might have to the North.”

Jon leaned back against his chair, covering his mouth with his hand.

_Please. Please, please. Please._

There was an uproar of different opinions thrown across the room, Davos disappearing into the back once more as lords and ladies spat their arguments at each other. Sansa clutched her hands together over the table, her back stiff as chaos unfolded before them.

The dragon queen was livid, paler than her winter coat. Paler than her own hair.

Jon would deal with her later.

“My ladies, my lords!” Sansa shouted above everyone else, finally standing up. “Is this what you’ll have me do? Is this your wish? That I marry my cousin Jon Snow?”

Jon’s heart was beating wildly against his ribs. They needed them to say yes. They needed the lords and ladies to almost impose that marriage on them. That was the only chance he had of convincing Daenerys. Tell her he would work for her from the inside, take the chance the Northerners were offering him to keep his promise to her. And then he’d marry Sansa before the heart tree. And he’d love her as her true husband, without fear.

“He’s a bastard!” someone shouted from the back.

“My lord, that was hardly the matter when you made him king” Sansa almost scoffed. But she never scoffed at the bannermen. “And bastards can be legitimise, if it is so important to you.”

“Aye, my lady, that might be a solution to this matter” Lyanna Mormont agreed, standing up before everyone else. “Your cousin might have done wrong, but his intentions were true. And a Stark would still lead us if you were to marry him instead of another lord.”

Lord Glover stood up as well.

“Aye.”

“Aye” Lord Royce agreed, standing up as well.

One by one, the great majority of the presents agreed to the idea.

Sansa took a long breath, her eyes scanning the Great Hall. And finally she looked down at him, and Jon had to hold his smile back.

“If that is your wish, if that is the will of the North, then I shall agree to your request” Sansa declared, tugging at Jon’s hand to lift him from his chair.

_She’ll burn us. We will die in the morning._

“Aye, and so shall I” he agreed, trying his best to seem at least a bit upset. Daenerys needed to believe this was against his wishes. That he loved her, above all other, but that they have given him no choice on the matter.

A round of thunderous applause filled the room. Maybe because with Sansa as their queen they were free from Daenerys, at least temporarily. Maybe because a wedding feast was something one needed during such a difficult time. Maybe because now they would have a proper Stark as their ruler, and not a Snow bastard.

“The Queen and King in the North!” Lyanna Mormont shouted. And a hundred voices joined her, Arya’s almost just as louder as all the other ones put together. “The Queen and King in the North!”

The loud thud of wood against stone as Daenerys of House Targaryen fled the room.

They had humiliated her, far more than they ought too.

_We’re all dead. Gods - if there are any - have mercy on us. We're all dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna thank you all for your amazing support! This story has grown so much thanks to you, when it was just a couple of lines floating in my head and now look, it grew a plot and all!  
> I know some of this arguments are a little flimsy, to say the least, but honestly I couldn't think of a better way to fix the things with the bannermen and all that mess. I mean, overall, Jon was a good king and I think they realise that. They just can't forgive the kneeling bit, but maybe a kneeler is better than Ramsay, right? Well, anything is better than Ramsay. A rock would be better than Ramsay. Anyway, I think that might be a plausible reason they want them to marry, because Jon never "betrayed" them for his own sake, but for theirs, yadayadayada, he needs to marry Sansa and that's it.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed and big hugs to everyone! You're the best!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! So this grew a plot. A huge plot, because you're all amazing people and got me into loving writing actual plot. For once. I promise there will be some more porn. Eventually. But it looks like there is no time for that right now. Enjoy!

He knocked on her door, bile climbing up his throat as he recalled a very similar night. But this time was different. This time he would set things back to their proper course. To where they should have been since the beginning.

By lying again.

A lie, on top of another lie. Where would this take them all, when it had all started with a lie? How would a dozen more fix the first one?

_For Sansa. For Arya, for Bran. For Sam. For Davos. For the North._

That had been what he had told himself on that ship. Jon didn’t belong to himself alone, he belonged to them. He needed to do what was best for them.

“Dany” he pleaded, when no one answered him.

He knew how to play that game. He had learnt over the course of the many moons she had kept him trapped on Dragonstone. And now he played it all too well. Even for his own good. It was easy to forget the man inside the liar. And sometimes it was hard to tell the lie from the truth.

He knocked again.

“Dany, please, let me explain.”

He heard angry steps and then the heavy door was open for him.

“You’re a coward!” she spat, before he could close the door behind himself, her eyes blown wide. Her perfect braided hair was a mess, her eyes were puffy, and she was yet to dress for bed.

Jon begged this wouldn’t take him too long. He wasn't in the mood for lying when he was yet to thank Sansa for that small plot of theirs.

“Dany, listen to me” he scrubbed his eyes, sighing, and gestured towards the chair by the fire. “I’m sorry for what they said to you. They… They just don’t know you like I do. You’re a stranger to them.”

_They’ll come to see you for what you are._

They had.

Daenerys hadn’t taken the chair. So he stood before her as well.

“And whose fault is that, Jon Snow?” she scoffed, her hands clawing at the back of the chair. “You were supposed to convince them! I trusted you! I came here for you.”

_No. You came here for you._

“And I did, my queen.” The words were poison on his lips. But she liked them. Pretty words for a pretty queen. And he was just a stupid boy, repeating the words they’d taught him. Tyrion, Missandei, Jorah. He had learnt what the dragon queen liked to hear and he had repeated those words himself. Carefully woven together, carefully lowering his voice just so, until he sounded nothing like his usual self. Until he was someone else entirely. Someone she could come to fall in love with.

Daenerys Targaryen would never have listened to the real Jon Snow. To the man that had spat in her face that he didn’t need her permission, for he was king. She had fallen in love with the kneeler.

He almost chuckled at the thought. He had been a bastard king, then the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and now he was marrying Sansa a bastard with no claim over anything. She had wanted a husband on the Iron Throne when she was a girl and now that she could finally get it she didn’t want it anymore.

But she was a woman now. And he was no longer a boy.

“I had hoped…” she trailed off, looking at her boots. “I’d thought that, after the war, maybe we could marry.”

He sighed heavily.

“I’d thought about it too.” It wasn’t a lie. He had thought about it, if it was what took to keep his family and his people safe. “Uniting our kingdoms. Bringing peace to the realm.”

Oh, she’d love that idea.

“But they asked you to marry your sister and you agreed.” There were tears in her eyes now.

He had expected fury. He had expected her wrath to spill over his head.

But he had hurt her. More than just her pride. And for a moment he pitied her. Pitied the woman that no one had loved for herself. They loved the queen, they loved the khaleesi, they loved the mother of dragons. But no one loved the woman.

Maybe Ser Jorah did, in a way.

Perhaps it wasn’t her fault, really, that she had become the person she was. There had been no Eddard Stark in her life. No Benjen Stark either. No Robb, no Arya, no Bran, no Rickon.

No Theon, in his own twisted way.

_No Sansa._

One could hardly learn his lessons if no one thought them. She had learnt to survive, to rise above everyone else, because she came from almost nothing. But no one had taught what she should do once she reached the top.

“I had no choice, Dany.” His voice was merely a whisper when he reached for her hand on the chair and squeezed it.

He knew what that simple gesture could do. Bring a man back from the dead. Give his life meaning again. Start a war.

“You heard them, they don’t trust me. And they aren’t pledged to you like I am. But if I marry their queen then maybe I can still keep my word” he explained, drawing small circles on the back of her hand. “To you. I can convince Sansa and then the Northerners that you’re the rightful queen. _Their_ rightful queen.”

She sighed, and Jon brought her hand to his lips. She didn’t pull back, her lilac eyes on his and making Jon wonder, for a moment, if her brother looked like her. If he had the same silver-blond hair, the same full lips, the same small round nose.

She was a beautiful woman. And she wasn’t cruel for the sake of being cruel. But she was ignorant, and she didn’t want to learn. She didn’t listen. That was her greatest sin, one maybe more unforgivable than just being downright cruel. And it would the death of them all in the end.

“Another clever plan, then?” There was a weak smile on her lips, and Jon knew he had won.

“One that will work.”

She leaned forward to kiss him and before Jon could consider it he took a step back, releasing her hand.

He cursed his name a thousand times.

“I- I’m sorry. We cannot lie to each other like this, Dany” he mumbled, looking at his feet. Her hand landed on his chest, over his heart, but he tried not to pull away again. “If you want to recover your throne you shouldn’t- I’m just a bastard. You need to make better alliances.”

“I know. But no one’s here now.” It sounded like a spell, enthralling him. And he was running out of arguments to run away.

He curled his hand around her wrist.

“We have to stop. It was but a fleeting dream, one that cannot be” he tried, hoping with all his might that she would buy this one. “I’m to marry another woman, one who’s been through hell like you did. Ned Stark was my father. I don’t want to dishonour his daughter. And I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to, right now. There’s no use in tricking ourselves that we could be happy. That we could have been happy.”

A tear fell down her cheek, and he brushed it away. It was easier, once he realised he was truly hurting her.

“That’s the burden of kings and queens, isn’t it?” she muttered, kissing his cheek. It was an innocent enough gesture. “We do not belong to ourselves.”

“No. We do not.” He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. So easy, so easy if he pretended she was someone else. “Goodnight, my queen.”

And with a short nod he was gone.

* * *

“You fucked up, that’s what you did” the Kingslayer spat, hoisting himself up from the mattress, neither him nor his brother noticing Jon’s entrance in the room. “She’s the Mad King’s daughter, Tyrion!”

“I would advise you to lower your voice, Ser” Jon mumbled, bolting the door behind him. If they were conspiring in a room they could not afford any slips. They could not risk Missandei or Grey Worm, clearly more loyal to their queen than the Imp, entering that room right now. They were all walking on a delicate thread. A slight breeze could throw them down into the abyss.

“Behold! Jon Snow, the bastard king who knelt” Jaime Lannister scoffed, rolling his eyes as Jon took a stool by the window, putting some distance between himself and the two brothers. “And then went on to marry his sister.”

Jon snapped his head at him, his nostrils flaring as that fire rumbled again in his chest. But then he lowered his eyes to his boots with a gloomy chuckle.

_Are you jealous, Kingslayer?_

“Jaime, you are surrounded by enemies here” Tyrion muttered between his teeth, clutching his brother’s hand over the furs. “May I remind you that some remarks are not wise?”

It was Jaime’s time to laugh.

“I was never the clever brother, was I? I had my looks and my sword, and you had your wits and your books, little brother” he sneered, leaning back against his pillows. “I had my queen, you have yours. And Jon Snow will have his, in due time. He can hardly serve two queens, can he?”

“He’s an honourable bastard, after all” Tyrion added, casting an eye at Jon, the joke pulling a smile from him. “Three men in a room, each with their own queen.”

Jon took a long breath. He wasn’t here to discuss queens.

“How many men does she have, Kingslayer?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes at him. He was the shadow of the man Jon had first met as a boy. The White Cloak that looked more like a king than Robert Baratheon himself. Now he had a scrawny face and his hair wasn't as golden anymore. And his right hand was gone. He was nothing but the shadow of the glorious knight Jon had thought him to be. Young Jon had looked up to. At the Dragon’s Pit, he seemed more like a snake than a lion, crawling behind his sister’s feet. But his green eyes had more life to them now than then, even if he was too weak to even leave that bed.

“Kill one mad king-” Jaime rolled his eyes.

“I’m the bastard, your brother is the Imp and you are the Kingslayer” Jon cut sharply, and Tyrion chuckled. “The sooner we all accept it the sooner this conversation will be over and you can rest again. How many men does your sister have?”

He waited for Jaime Lannister’s answer. A heartbeat passed. Two. A hundred.

The Kingslayer took a long breath.

“Twenty thousand men. Horses and elephants too. From Essos.” Another pause. “Euron Greyjoy is sailing them all here.”

Jon’s heart sank.

They could not beat them. They didn’t have enough men. Daenerys’s dragons could burn the fleet. Maybe. But they couldn’t be in two different places at the same time. And though the Walkers had already killed one dragon they were still their best shot at winning this. At surviving.

_We need Theon. We need Theon and the Ironborn._

_When the time comes he’ll be here and the Iron Fleet with him._

“Why did you ride here, Ser Jaime?” Jon asked. “Why turn your back on your sister and risk your life? Why do so for your enemies?”

His green eyes were on Jon’s. Yes, he wasn’t the man he had known – even admired – as a boy. He wasn’t the man that had pushed Bran down that tower either. He was something else entirely. A Kingslayer, ready to run through his sword anyone he thought unworthy of holding such title.

“Do you know what she called me, Snow? Or is it Sand now? I was never good with those sorts of details either” Jaime jested, a smirk on his face. Jon felt the need to punch it away. “She called me a traitor. She said if I left her it would be treason.”

_Traitor. Traitor…_

“A room full of traitors, then” Tyrion breathed, and the three men’s dark laughter echoed through the stones. “But is betrayal that terrible, if it’s for the greater good? Even honourable Eddard Stark betrayed his King Robert, lied to his own wife, to protect his sister’s son. You should be grateful for that little treason, Jon.”

Jon frowned.

He was. For once – just this once – he was thankful for being alive. He was grateful he had been born. His death would mean so much more, when it came, knowing that he had lived. That he had been by her side, even if only in stolen moments and a promise of a family. A real family.

Jon parted the curtain behind him just a bit, to peek at the courtyard. He saw Arya, Brienne and Lyanna Mormont practicing swordfight, the later clearly not as skilled at it as the other two. Maybe yet. On a more secluded corner he saw Gilly, sitting on the snow with Little Sam on her lap, and a figure with red hair escaping a black hood kneeling next to them, building a small castle. There was no trace of the dragon queen.

If only there wasn’t a war to fight…

“Aye, but your brother didn’t answer my question. Why, Kingslayer?” Jon pressed, closing the curtain and facing the others again.

“Which queen do you serve, Jon Snow? You told my sister you couldn't serve two queens” Jaime mocked, a smug smile on his face. Jon wished he had let Arya kill him two days ago. “You should have taken that offer. Sure, Cersei would come for Sansa and the North. Eventually. But that would have bought you some time."

“Jaime” Tyrion urged, squeezing his brother’s hand.

“But they made your sister Queen in the North and your other queen is still here. It’s so confusing. I was never good with this stuff. My father, he used to rant about houses and lords and kings and I could never listen. Cersei was always better with those things than me” Jaime Lannister continued, as if he hadn’t heard Tyrion. “So which one will it be, then? The dragon queen or the wolf queen, Jon Snow?”

Jon took a long breath, and straightened his shoulders, finally looking Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, in the eye.

_Bran can’t walk because of him. Never forget that._

He had betrayed his king, and saved a whole city. Now he betrayed his queen, hoping to save a kingdom. And only to be looked down again and again until he died in shame. Maybe a man’s good deeds weren’t enough to erase his wrong ones.

“I swore my allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen as a king. I’m a king no more” Jon declared, and somehow it finally made sense to him. It finally become real. The North wasn’t sworn to her anymore.

_But she isn’t sworn to the North either._

Jaime sighed, and then gave a weak smile.

“Then I don’t believe we can call ourselves enemies anymore, Lord Snow.” There was no hint of mockery in his tone. “We all serve the same queen now. The only queen who serves the kingdom, instead of using it for her own interests.”

Jon chuckled.

“Your brother might disagree, Ser Jaime.”

“My brother has made mistakes, like you and I” Jaime said, his eyes on his brother now. “But even if I, the stupid one, can see it, it can’t be that difficult for him.”

Tyrion remained silent, focused on the pleats of his doublet over his lap.

* * *

She had let her hair down, the long red strands cascading down her back as she passed the brush again, and again, and again. Slow, gentle motions, like she had all the time in the world. An eternity, until her hair shone like the molten steel he had seen earlier today at the smith, as Gendry beat yet another breastplate with his hammer, making metal sing against metal, his eyes darting occasionally across the courtyard to watch Brienne and Arya sparring. They were both pleasing to look at, their fighting style so different and yet so elegant and efficient. Like a well-practised deadly dance.

_Elegant dances won’t kill the wights._

Jon leaned back against the heavy door, trying not to make a sound. Trying not to breath. Nothing that would break the spell. He had heard a soft hum, but it couldn’t be. She didn’t sing anymore. She had forgotten all the songs.

“You know I can see you on the mirror” Sansa said, raising her eyebrows at his reflex as she took another strand of her hair between her fingers. The song was over.

Ghost raised his enormous head from her lap and his red eyes pierced Jon. His rest had been disturbed too.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you” Jon apologized, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her bed. He wondered briefly if she had put the mirror where it was so she could look at her door even if she was distracted. Probably so.

“There are many things disturbing me right now. How we’re supposed to feed Daenerys’s army is one of them” she scoffed, her eyes still on her reflex. “You, on the other hand, are not. How did she take it?”

Jon rested his elbows on his knees, squeezing his head between his hands. Something wet brushed against his face.

“Hey, boy” he whispered, stroking the wolf’s head. Now that he didn’t serve the dragon queen he had been forgiven. “Not as well as I’d wanted. Not as bad as I’d feared.”

But that wasn’t his main concern right now. The woman’s romantic feelings weren’t his main concern. Euron Greyjoy was coming and Jon had an entire army he needed to send north, not to the coast. He had beaten his head over and over and still no solution came to mind. People who couldn’t or wouldn’t fight couldn’t accompany them to camp. They were safer here, within the walls of Winterfell. But they couldn’t split their men. And they couldn’t fight Cersei first and then with the scraps of an army fight the Night King.

"Are you alright?" Sansa asked, genuinely concerned, and his heart burst in a thousand pieces.

He nodded, forcing a smile at her.

“We can marry in three days, if that’s alright with you” she said, her blue eyes on his. “Someone said a fortnight. Someone suggested a feast. We have no time nor the resources to accommodate either.

“Aye, three days sounds fine” he muttered, unable to feel the happiness he would have felt a couple of hours ago.

But he was yet to kiss her for their small victory, so he forced his legs to work and knelt beside her. When he cupped her cheeks and her warm lips brushed against his some of his joy returned to his chest.

“And if there’s no feast, there’s no need for a bedding ceremony, is it?” he groaned, his eyes drifting down, the soft glow of the hearth turning her shift translucent.

He wanted to rip it off of her. And then bury himself deep inside of her, and watch her squirm under him, those delightful noises that dripped from her mouth when her cunt fluttered around him filling his ears. 

Sansa chuckled.

“No one suggested it. Either they’re afraid of you-”

“Might be Arya they’re afraid of” Jon cut. “Or maybe they just respect you too much.”

He believed the second more than he believe the first one. Everyone knew Ramsay's cruelty. Everyone knew Sansa had been married to him. And the Northerners weren’t that vile.

“Cersei Lannister has twenty thousand men on Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, sailing here right now” Jon shoot, before he lost the courage to do so.

Sansa huffed, as if he had hit her. But a heartbeat later her face was calm and Jon could almost hear the clogs in her skull twisting and turning hastily. She carefully placed her brush before the mirror before she looked at him again.

“We need the Ironborn. There’s no other way we can survive this” she whispered, but her fingers were toying with the laces down her chest.

Jon sighed, looking away. Even her brush was… Less delicate than he recalled. A simple thing, made of rough steel with rough hair too. He remembered Arya and Sansa fighting about a white porcelain one with blue roses. Arya had broken it because she was using it as a toy sword and it eventually hit the floor. Sansa had run to their lady mother, crying inconsolably and screaming she could never have something nice that Arya wouldn’t ruin.

But this wasn’t the time for delicate things. Or for crying over the injustice of the world.

“Last time I saw Theon he was going after his sister. That’s all I know.”

Sansa tucked her hair behind her hears, gulping thickly.

“We have no one in Kings Landing.”

“Sam’s father, Randyll Tarly, is loyal to Cersei” Jon said, his fingers drumming on her knee. “He won’t tell anything, of course, but maybe his brother might.”

“So we’d trust someone stupid enough to betray his own family?”

She gasped, covering her mound with her hand and curling the other around his, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant-“ she tried, her face red.

_Theon, Jaime, Tyrion… Myself. Our survival rests on the shoulders of a bunch of traitors._

“It doesn’t matter” he cut sharply. But it had hurt him all the same. “A raven would never reach him on time.”

They both huffed, this time. Defeated. It had been a beautiful dream, while it lasted. Riding north with their army, the dragon queen’s and Cersei’s. Killing the wights. Then accept Cersei’s offer to stay neutral and let the two queens fight themselves and decide who’d rule the south. Jon couldn’t care less about who sat on the Iron Throne. Then he'd come home to Sansa's arms again, and they'd fill Winterfell with children's laughter again.

And now they were trapped between two armies, with no chance of escaping.

He held both her hands in his, his thumbs brushing her skin.

She would have wanted a proper wedding. A beautiful silk dress, winter roses and lemon cakes everywhere. Songs and dances and wine and a boar. He would have danced with her all night, even though he was terrible at it, just to hear her sing every song against his ear. She knew the songs still. She liked to pretend she didn’t to shield her heart from the pain of hope. But they were both fools, dreaming impossible dreams again. Hoping again.

“A raven…” Sansa muttered, standing up as if something had pinched her, her cloak already on her shoulders and clutched tightly around her as she reached for her boots by the fire, a cloud of angry red hair floating around her. “A raven won’t. But Bran might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm terrible, I'll try to take some time to answer your comments, I promise! It's just that when I finally get a minute there's more plot in my head and I need to write it down. You've awoken the plot-demon.  
> I'd like to point out that none of Dany's fans has been nothing but lovely to me until now, okay? I'm just the kind of person that likes to warn in advance if there's something I think might hurt people's sensibilities or something. Like, if you've watched Moulin Rouge I really appreciate it when Ewan McGregor's character warns us within the first five minutes into the movie. You know what you're getting yourself into since the beginning.  
> I love you all, no matter what you ship or the characters you like! As long as you're as delightful as you've all been to this point (though I can always take criticism, I know I'm far from perfect and one can learn a lot from people with a different point of view).  
> BIG HUGS to everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding and some smut ahead. And some angst on the side, of course. Because war is coming and all.  
> Also, I want to dedicate this chapter to asongforjonsa, who asked for more smut and a wedding (here you go) and bbgroove, that complained about "no banging" (here you go too), and pinkyrai, who asked about a jonsa wedding (here you go too) (I'm still working out on tagging people properly, but at least you get the intention). Also to all of the lovely people whose comments I couldn't find to dedicate this to them as well, because I'm that dumb. Love you!

Hot rage boiled inside Jon’s belly. Like some beast was clawing at his insides.

So she was that cruel. He knew she was… Less kind than what people said. And he knew people around her liked to tell pretty embellished tales about her deeds. About how she had freed the weak and less fortunate. How she cared for her people.

_Not all of it._

“I don’t understand” Sansa muttered, pulling her cloak tighter around her as yet another shiver shook her body. And because it was just them, just their small pack, Jon wrapped his arms around her numbly, as if he hadn’t even considered it. “No one escapes Cersei.”

“You and I did” Arya corrected, crossing her arms over her chest as she shrugged. “And so did the Imp and the Kingslayer. That Theon could take Yara from her claws is no surprise at this point.”

Of course. They never knew her. They always expected her to be the Mad King’s daughter and nothing more.

_Unlike me. Fool. A traitor and a fool._

At least Theon was now sailing north to help them, according to Bran. His fleet would surely meet Euron’s at open sea in less than three days, if the visions were true.

“We’ll send part of our own ships to meet them as well” Sansa said, looking at the map over the desk and pointed at some blue blur there. Jon couldn’t see. Jon couldn’t see anything. “How many ships does the dragon queen have? I do hope she didn’t spend her time on Dragonstone knitting by the fire.”

“Sam can’t know, Jon.” Bran’s voice woke him up, his cold hand tugging at Jon’s. Like he was a boy still, asking him not to tell father he had climbed the broken tower again. “Do you understand? It will only hurt him and do us no good.”

Sansa whipped her head towards Bran and Arya frowned, her eyes roaming from Jon to Bran, trying to make some sense of the latter’s words.

Jon’s nostrils flared, and he released a broken sigh.

“Tyrion knew. Tyrion knew and he said nothing.”

“And he did it for a reason, you must know that” Bran said, and though he sounded wise beyond his years he sounded like a desperate boy too.

_Don’t tell father, Jon. Please don’t tell._

Bran never asked him not to tell lady Catelyn, though. He knew his bastard brother wouldn’t dare.

“Bran’s right” Sansa agreed, nodding as she finally understood Bran’s meaning.

“He’s my brother. Sam is my brother” Jon growled between clenched teeth, his eyes drifting towards the heavy curtains that covered the windows. Anywhere. Anywhere but those faces pleading him to tell yet another lie. “The only brother I had for a long time. I won’t lie to him.”

“You cannot ask that of him!” Arya roared, her eyes blown wide. “We must trust each other, we cannot hide something so important!”

Sansa rested a hand on Arya’s shoulder, her other curling around Jon’s limp fingers. He finally dared look at her, her blue eyes gentle and fierce at the same time, her face soft, a stray tendril brushing against her cheek. Jon resisted the urge to tug it behind her ear. He was hurt. They were asking too much of him.

_But I lied to them already, and they are of my flesh and blood. Why not tell another lie?_

“Sam will be crushed, to say the least. And he’ll probably want revenge” Sansa whispered, her voice soothing his nerves. “But he won’t get it. If the dragon queen burnt his brother, an innocent man who refused to bend the knee to her, I don’t doubt she’ll do the same to a man that defies her openly. Is that what you want, Jon?”

He couldn’t lie to Sam. Sam was his brother. There had been too many lies between them already. And Jon was too familiar with the damage not knowing whether the ones he loved were safe or not could do to a man.

But he wanted Sam alive. He wanted them all alive, when the war was over. Surely getting themselves killed before it even started wasn’t the best way to do it.

From the corner of his eye Jon saw Arya lowering her head, nodding slightly.

“Sam mustn’t know” Jon agreed, in the end, letting his shoulders fall as he intertwined his fingers with Sansa’s. “At least not yet.”

“Also, you both should say your vows tomorrow” Bran added, not giving them time to breath.

Sansa opened her mouth, but Bran raised his hand, smiling sadly. Jon’s heart skipped more than a few beats.

“Don’t. Don’t ask me to say something I would rather not say” he muttered, chewing his lip and closing his hand over Jon and Sansa’s, still linked together. “You are my sister, Sansa, and you will always be my brother, Jon. I wish you all the happiness you can have, with the little time you’ve been granted – we’ve all been granted. Winter is here. War is here. You shouldn’t waste your time.”

Something warm bloomed on Jon’s chest as Bran’s hand squeezed theirs, and then Arya added hers.

He would have to go. He would have to leave them all behind, and another carefully woven lie as well. Another one, to add to that infinite tapestry. But he had died once, and saw no gods to punish him for his sins.

There were no gods. Just the ones one might love on this life. This life. _This_ was all they had, and nothing more.

And they had each other.

* * *

Even when they were children, even when she left for south to marry Joffrey, this was never the picture Jon had made up in his head. He had imagined her with those complicated southern braids and twists, like a copper crown over her head. And delicate silks or heavy velvets, bright blue or lavender. He had imagined another man standing beside her too. Tall and fair of hair. A younger Jaime Lannister maybe.

Instead she her blue wolf dress dragged through the snow softly crunching under her leather boots. Jon felt his face burn, remembering his silly words to her when she had asked him if he liked it, but couldn’t quite lower his eyes, fixed on her gentle smile. And small snowflakes, like gentle kisses, fell down the sky and breeched the thick canopy of trees to find her red braid, falling down the left side of her chest, crowing her their Snow Queen.

No man had brought her here. No one would bring Sansa, but still she had asked Jon to walk by her side to the heart tree. Too many painful memories, if she had to stare at her husband’s back while she dragged her feet between the crowd. And yet, if she saw him there, by her side, she would realise it wasn’t the same. This time she was there because she had chosen too. This time Jon was there, and nothing would hurt her.

Or at least that was what she had told him.

And yet, he had tried to make a point out of not holding her hand during their walk. He needed her to know that she could leave if she wanted to. She was free to go. She was free to run away. But halfway through her gloved fingers had bumped against his and she had clutched his hand, and somehow that had made Jon release the breath he didn’t know he was holding until that very moment.

She was there. With a black cloak with a wolf’s pelt on her shoulders that matched the one on his. And she wouldn’t go away. She wouldn’t fade away, like one of his foggy dreams. So he held her hand too, like they were stronger, together. Like not even two dragons and an army of undead could hurt them.

Like they were the only gods in the godswood on that cold evening.

“Sansa, of House Stark, the Queen in the North, comes here to be wed.” Her voice sounded clear and sure as she turned around to face the small crowd that surrounded the pool of dark water. Arya and Bran and Ghost. Sam and Gilly. Ser Davos and Lady Brienne and Gendry. And the lords and ladies that had flocked to Winterfell to take refuge. Their household. Tyrion, and Ser Jorah and the dragon queen somewhere in there too.

But Jon never saw them. If he really saw them his mouth would go dry and his palms would sweat. He hated that everyone was staring at them. So he only saw Sansa and those right in front of them.

Their family. Their small pack.

He didn’t pray anymore. Not after all the gods had forsaken him. But he still begged to whatever power floated high above the laws of men and women that all of them survived this. That all of them waited him at Winterfell once the Night King was defeated. That they could share some ale before the fire and share stories and laugh once more.

Jon was yet to hear Bran’s laughter. He wouldn’t die a second time without hearing it. And without earning Sam’s forgiveness. Or at least telling him the truth. After this was over he could tell his brother the truth. It won’t matter anymore, once the war was won.

Or lost.

“Jon, of House Stark, comes here to be wed” he said, his voice raspier and shakier than hers, his fist closing around _Longclaw_ ’s pommel as if he could draw some strength from it.

_Stark._

Sansa had signed the papers that made him a true Stark that same morning. Even if he chose not to marry her in the end he would go north a true Stark. Lyanna Stark’s trueborn son. Lyanna and an unknown father, though most believed him to be Rhaegar Targaryen. It didn’t matter. He had been made a Stark now, he would never pose a threat to Daenerys’s claim. That was all that mattered.

Also, as Jon later realised, Sansa was protecting herself. Her heart, to be more accurate. She was making sure he wasn’t marrying her for her family name, so she had given it freely.

_Jon Stark, at last._

He took both her hands, and they both faced each other again.

She was beautiful. A knot twisted around Jon’s throat, and his vision blurred, the fire from the dozens of torches dancing around her.

If only he had stayed. If only he hadn’t rode south and waited for Bran. If only he had married her then, and they had more time. If only there wasn’t a war to fight.

_If…_

“I take this man” she announced, a small smile as she nodded almost unperceptively, urging him to continue. Her cheeks were pink, and Jon dared think it wasn’t just for the cold. Dared think that maybe this modest wedding ceremony might do something to please the girl Sansa had been once. This wasn’t the sort of celebration she might have dreamt back then. He wasn’t the type of groom she had envisioned back then. But maybe – just maybe – _this_ might still mean something to her.

It did, to him. It meant the world to him.

“I take this woman” Jon added. “I am hers and she is mine.”

“I am his and he is mine” she said, and he brushed the back of her hands with his thumbs, a wide grin spreading on his lips like he was a foolish boy, still thinking she would say anything but that. Thinking she would run and marry another more worthy of her.

“From this day until the end of my days” they said at the same time, leaning forward to brush their cold lips almost chastely as the crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

_And may there be many of them still._

She giggled against his lips when they parted, their loved ones quickly surrounding them and offering their congratulations. Jon found Daenerys lilac eyes, among the crowd, and his heart sunk down. He didn’t enjoy hurting her. He had to, but he didn’t like it one bit.

But the dragon queen just nodded sharply, like she understood. Like she was aware this was the only way.

_She doesn’t care. She cares only for her throne made of swords. And burning innocent people so they fear and admire her. Good._

Somehow, Sansa managed to dismiss everyone at the edge of the godswood, sending them all behind Arya, the new lady of Winterfell. There was a small feast on the Great Hall, though there was more stewed goat and fowl soup than roasted boar or pheasant and ale than Arbor Gold. But he didn’t hear a thing, his mind hiding within itself, relishing on the fact that at least he would die married to the woman he loved. Knowing he had protected her from unwanted suitors. Even more if he had put a babe in her belly. With an heir to the North there would be no need for the queen to remarry.

“What did you tell them?” Jon mumbled against Sansa’s ear, and she shivered.

“That we needed to pray for guidance. In private.”

Her eyes were still on the backs of those leaving them behind.

“I thought you didn’t pray anymore” he said, frowning, as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and brought her closer. She had his old cloak, and he had the one she had made for him. But still, the night was colder than usual.

Or at least usual these days.

“I don’t. And neither do you.” She shrugged, but he felt her small hand on his waist, pulling him to her as well.

Jon notice there weren’t white clouds crawling from their mouths anymore, and his nose felt less cold, even though larger snowflakes tried to cover them now, drifting softly to his eyebrows and his beard. And before he could really say anything, before he could take control of his own steps, Sansa had walked them both towards the hot pools by the Guest House.

She peeled herself from him, without a word, without a sound. In the distance, he could hear wolfs howling, and the muffled laughter of the feast inside the castle. But his heartbeat was deafening in his ears, as Sansa’s fingers moved to his front, unbuckling the straps of his cloak and letting it fall to the ground. In silent agreement, Jon moved his own hands over her elegant shoulders, and her cloak joined his on the snow.

How much time did they have, still? How much time, until the dead marched south, or the barbarians reached their shores? How long would they live, before they died?

It mattered little, after Sansa rid him from his smallclothes, and Jon did the same for her, and she dipped her foot on the warm water, holding his hand tightly so as not to slip on the old perilous steps that descended into the central pool.

_Maybe the water will wash my sins away._

But he caught himself staring open-mouthed at the tops of Sansa’s breasts, half hidden by the dark water, half soaking in moonlight as she sat next to him on the steps, and chuckled darkly.

_Maybe there are too many of those. Maybe there’s not enough water in this world to cleanse me._

The warm water eased his muscles, the heavy snow melting as soon as it hit his damp skin. Jon let out a content hum as Sansa gently untied his hair and carded her fingers through it and he closed his eyes, as if that would keep that memory on his mind forever. As if he could always come back to this moment when he was covered in blood and filth and freezing to death.

Or burning. One could never know.

“Thank you.”

He almost didn’t hear her uncertain voice over the sound of the running water. She sounded nothing like the Queen in the North that had just said her vows before the heart tree and her people. And the ghosts, the dozens of ghosts that surrounded them, not all wishing them well. But maybe this place was different too, just like her tone now. Some strange place, secluded from the outside world. A place where she was just Sansa and he was just Jon. Man and woman.

Jon frowned, his eyes searching hers in the pale light that turned her skin into silver.

_Steel. Not silver._

“For what?” he asked, turning so he could kiss the inside of her wrist. Jon closed his eyes, sighing softly as the scent of winter roses filled his nostrils.

The scent of home. Like virgin snow, and lemon cakes, and ale, and freshly baked kidney pies.

She took a long breath, but her fingers still caressed the back of his head, Jon’s hand resting on the inside of her thigh and slowly finding its way up. But before he could do anything she had shifted, sitting on his lap with a swift swing of her legs, her plump lips devouring his with a fierceness that somehow still took him by surprise.

“For this. For this little moments of happiness” she whispered against his lips, a wide smile on her face as she coyly lowered her eyes to her chest. Some curls had freed themselves from her braid, clinging to her flushed cheeks, coiling around her ears and against her neck. She had never looked more beautiful.

Jon curled his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him and burying his nose on the crook of her neck. He liked that place too much. He could feel her strong pulse there, smell her sweet skin, lick the small drops of sweat that slid there when her cunt squeezed his cock and she whimpered against his ear.

He groaned, feeling himself harden at the thought and the overwhelming proximity with her. It was too much, and still not enough. It was never enough.

It would never be.

“I should be the one thanking you, then” he said, his beard scratching the tender skin of her shoulder. “These last few days- If that’s all we’ll have-”

She slid back from him, letting herself sink in the warm water until her chin, not waiting for him to finish his sentence, and he shut his mouth. Maybe the words were too harsh, either for her to hear of for him to say it. Surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel, to let them have their happiness just to rip it out from them. If they were characters in one of those stories Sansa – and him too, though Jon wasn’t always proud of it – had loved so much certainly destiny wouldn’t test them a second time. It made no sense, in any tale he had ever heard, for a maiden to suffer such atrocities just to keep on enduring them until her death after a fleeting moment of joy. For a boy to die and be resurrected and find a true meaning to his life just to die again.

But the world was a cruel place. And he didn’t rely on bards and minstrels anymore. And so didn’t she.

“That- That thing you do” Sansa stammered, moving her arms around her body and disturbing the peaceful pool with a dozen of gentle waves. “With your mouth. Your… Your mouth on my- My cunny.”

He felt his face burn. But his cock jolted again, his tongue remembering the sweet taste of her while he sucked her dry. It was so easy… Too easy, wanting her. Too easy, longing for her.

And care for her too. From the moment she had wrapped her arms around him for the first time in years she had been there, on his mind, giving him a reason to live.

Her blue eyes were on his, as if she waited for a sign to continue.

“Aye.”

She lowered her eyes again.

“You don’t like it?” Jon asked, a deep frown on his face, his lips pursed together. She had never complained about it. Quite the opposite. But still, maybe he should have asked before. Maybe he had, but his mind wasn’t always clear when his face was buried between her thighs.

“No. No! I… Hmm… I do, actually.” He curled his hand around her wrist, stroking it. She must know she could speak freely to him. She raised her eyes to his, her cheeks pink, almost the same shade as her inviting lips, and gulped thickly. “I was just thinking that maybe – just maybe, I don’t know. That you’d like it. Too. If I did it. To you. If that’s possible, I don’t know.”

Jon’s stomach flipped, his fingers freezing on her skin. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, forcing his dark thoughts away from his mind.

He remembered Theon bragging about it, after one of his uncountable trips to Winter Town, and his obscene remarks about this or that whore’s amazing mouth. And Tormund, too, though when the wildling spoke about it he was more prone to incoherent guffaws and snorts than pride. And it was never amongst one of his recommendations to ban the cold.

“Sansa” he muttered, stroking her cheek. He was rewarded with a small smile. “Sweetheart, you don’t- You don’t have to.”

She gave a sharp nod, her eyes fixed on his, unafraid. She had endured much worse than unladylike conversations with the man she had spent the last nights with.

“I know” she said, both her palms now running up and down his thighs under the water. And Jon could picture it already, her pretty red lips wrapped around his swollen cock… He shook his head, pushing the thought away. “But I want to please you. Would you like that?”

“You already please me too much, Sansa” he sighed, leaning forward to kiss her. But Sansa was smart, much smarter than him, and took his distraction to push him back, until he sat a couple of steps above where he had been, the water barely reaching his knees now.

But he wasn’t cold. The steam clang to his skin, and his blood sang in his veins, burning him from the inside.

“Don’t lie to me” she scolded, her lips against his jaw, her nimble hand tracing the path from his left hip to the right one over and over, until Jon let his mouth hang open, breathing heavily.

“I’m not” he swore, her mouth now descending over his breastbone. Surely she could feel his heart drumming against her lips. “I don’t know, Sansa. No one’s ever-“

She stopped abruptly, her brows almost knit together as she eyed him. And then she giggled, and he felt his ears burn.

“What? What did I say, now?” he screeched, looking at the grey wall in from of him, focusing on the snow covering the dead vines. As if that would fix it.

“Nothing, I’m sorry.” She covered her mouth hastily, taking a brief moment to compose herself, and then her tongue was tracing the muscles of his stomach, and Jon couldn’t see the wall anymore. “I never thought there was something you didn’t know, that’s all.”

He smiled, running his hand down the expanse of her back.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

The air got sucked out of his lungs when her hot tongue first run along his length, her hands flat against his thighs to give herself some sort of support. Jon clawed at the stone under him, squinting when his nails hit he hard surface. But Sansa didn’t give him enough time to think, her fingers closing around the base to press a gentle kiss to the head of his cock, and it took all of Jon’s strength not to buck against her.

“It feels good, when you suck on that little bundle” she whispered, looking at him once more. It was so filthy, on so many ways, seeing her between his legs. And so beautiful, at the same time. And somehow so pure, too. “Can I do the same?”

“You can. You have to put it in your mouth, I guess” he explained, but his voice sounded strange to him. Lower and rougher than usual. He gulped, tried to clear it. “But Sansa, you don’t have to- Fuck!”

He tangled his fingers on her braided hair, his mind flooded with the sensation of her warm, wet mouth around his hard cock, her tongue swirling around him as if it was his own tongue. Her kisses might have brought him to life, but now her motions – though still somewhat uncertain and shy – were killing him.

A low hum erupted from her mouth as she hallowed her cheeks, sucking gently, and Jon growled, his mind blank, his elbow sore from the sheer force he was holding himself to the stone, the fingernails from the hand on Sansa’s head scratching her skin before he could think about not hurting her.

It was too good. Better than anything any man could have told him. Even better, because he hadn’t paid – or even asked – for it. Because she had chosen to give it freely. Because she was free. Because she had been the one to bring him here and bare him to her eyes in the first place.

There was a tingling in the back of his head and he thrusted into her mouth.

The hand around his cock tightened and Sansa stopped with a choking sound.

Jon’s heart stopped, his hands under her arms to pull her up, his eyes searching her scrunched face as she covered her mouth with her hand and coughed until her face almost turned blue.

“Fuck, Sansa! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot.” He slapped her back with one hand, brushing the curls from her face with the other.

How could he be so stupid? He could have killed her. He wasn’t just a green boy, he was a man grown. A man with responsibilities, mostly to the woman he loved. How could he be so stupid?

“Fuck, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry! I’m an idiot” he begged again, his frown relaxing just a bit when he finally saw some colour back on her cheeks and she started breathing normally. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, his nose buried in her hair.

“I’m not very good at it, am I?” she jested, and relief washed over Jon when she kissed his neck, chuckling.

“No, you were too good, actually” he corrected her. “Seven hells, I almost killed you! And then your father’s ghost would have killed me for that, too.”

She chuckled. And now Jon’s pride was a little hurt.

“Aye, laugh all you like. I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that” she assured him, in a more serious tone, both her hands cupping his cheeks, her bright eyes boring into his, like she was tried to read his thoughts. “Father said… Not long before they killed him, that Joffrey was no Prince Aemon, and that he would find someone better for me.”

Jon willed his eyes not to roll. He hated it when she spoke about Joffrey. She had been so infatuated with him, and he had been the only cause of their family’s disgrace. He had given the order to cut Lord Eddard’s head off. And Jon hated it the most when Sansa scolded him, comparing him to Joffrey.

_You’re as far from Joffrey as anyone I’ve ever met._

He kept quiet, letting her explain herself first.

“Someone brave and gentle and strong, he said.” Her fingers stroked his beard, and she brushed her nose against his. “One could say that with his lie, he brought us together, in a way.”

“Would you rather I was your Prince Aemon, then?” he teased. “Would you rather I was your Dragonknight, the champion fighting for your honour?”

_Instead of stealing it away like a common thief?_

It stung. Sansa had wanted the heir to the Iron Throne. He could be have been that person, but he had given that up so he could be with her, and he had hoped a legitimized bastard would be enough for Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North.

But of course it wasn’t. _He_ wasn’t.

“You already did, Jon” she muttered, brushing her lips against his, and his eyelids fluttered shut as he drowned in her mouth, his tongue stroking hers as if she was about to disappear from his arms. As if this was just one of his feverish dreams.

“But I would rather you were just my husband” she whispered against his mouth. “And that I could love you, just as much as I love you now, until we were old and grey and our time finally came.”

_Husband. As much as I love you now._

His heart swell in his chest, and a wide grin spread on his face.

“I love you” he swore, pressing small pecks to her lips, his hands rubbing her hips and his heavy cock against his belly reminding him they still had to consummate their union. “Wife.”

_I am his, and she his mine. From this day until the end of my days. Our days._

Jon brushed his thumb against her belly.

“Do you think we made our little wolf already?” he asked, hopeful. But it was too soon. And there were somethings he actually knew about women. And their mooncycles. And about certain days where it was more likely to make a babe. They had had to be really lucky, if they had achieved it in less than a week.

“Our little wolf” she repeated, a wide smile on her face as she covered her hand with his. “Well, it won’t be for lack of trying, will it?”

She wrapped her hand around his cock, and sank him all the way inside of dripping cunt, both their low moans becoming one in the night, the warm water sloshing around them.

It wasn’t as gentle as the other times, as if they were both too aware of Bran’s words. There was a war to fight, somewhere, out there. Sooner rather than later.

Sansa gripped his knees, leaning back as her hips snapped against his, and Jon sank his fingers on the tender flesh of her waist to prevent her from floating away from him as he thrusted up into her.

And those delicious noises, dripping from her mouth as she panted his name… He wanted to remember her like this. To engrave that vision of her, bucking her hips to chase her pleasure and make him fill her with his seed, her tits bouncing with each snap covered in moonlight and the gentle snowflakes, like cotton, that kept on falling from the sky and melted against her skin.

“My wife” he growled, a hand on the small of her back to press her to his chest, the other finding that small bundle that would make her peak before he did. Before he lost all sense of reason. “My wolf queen.”

She moaned loudly, and as if to prove him he was right sank her teeth on his shoulder, making him groan too as her walls began to milk his cock. He wouldn’t last much.

“My husband” she panted, interrupted by the silent cry coming from her mouth as her cunt fluttered and she threw her head back, her nails digging on his back, probably adding some new scars to the ones he already had. But these, just like her small bites, where good ones. He would smile when he looked at them. “My lord. My king. My knight.”

Her words sent him over the edge, his cock pulsing and his stomach rippling as a white hot pleasure blinded him, and the scent of her – of them – filled his nose.

He held her tighter, his fingers one her thighs certainly bruising her. But Sansa said nothing, instead covering his face with kisses as he did the same to the crook of her neck, still half drowsy with his own pleasure.

“Come back to me, Jon” she pleaded, in a broken voice. “Come back to me, to hold our babe in your arms. Promise me, Jon. Come back to me.”

He held her hands in his, and looked her in the eyes. He would do it properly.

For once.

“I will, I promise.” _Either as a living man or a corpse to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell_. “And keep yourself safe, Sansa. All of you. I need something to return to. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

He knew she would. If someone could survive this war it was her. She had dealt with Cersei and won once. She could do it again.

And so could Arya and Bran. And all the others Jon would leave behind.

He would fight the dead for them. And he would fight until his last breath to at least win them some time, if he couldn’t win the war altogether. To at least give them the change to flee to Essos or some other place, whatever other places might exist on this world.

Jon stood up, his arms around Sansa’s waist so he could carry her with him.

This might be their last night. Or maybe not. But now they needed to dry themselves and recompose themselves as best as they could. There was a feast inside, they had guests to tend to. The time for being nothing more than man and woman, husband and wife, had ended.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long to update but a lot of things happened lately. First of all, the results on that exam came out and they were better than my wildest dreams (not that anyone cares, but you guys have been so supportive that I thought I might as well tell you) and maybe (just maybe) I get to choose what I want in the city I've come to love this past few nine months or so.  
> Also, love you all. Cannot stress this enough. The comments on this story (and some other fics as well, but I feel this might be my favourite so far) gave me the strength to keep going though everything around me seemed to be falling apart. You guys are the best and I cannot send enough hugs to everyone. Also, I'm thinking about writing something of my own. I have started a lot of stories before but I couldn't quite find my own voice (maybe because I was too self-conscious about it) and maybe I haven't found it yet but I'm a little closer now. So thank you, for making my life so much brighter than it could have been without you! Lots of love and luck to all of you.  
> PS: I know this sounds like a goodbye from me, but it isn't. There's still so much to this story, like a heartbreaking goodbye, two whole wars, Cersei, the Greyjoys, the Dance of Dragons... So yeah, at least 12-ish chapters, I guess. Also, maybe some POV changes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand sh*t hits the fan.

He felt something tug him away from his daze. Like two cold hands around his ankles, pulling him from the sweetest dream. He could still smell the roses and lemons and sweat around him. Feel her soft skin against his beard, her pulse drumming against his ear. A sweet dream indeed.

_A dream of spring._

Another knock on the door, this time harsher. He was fully woke then, groaning when Sansa moved her legs, almost trapping his head between her thighs. Her foot brushed against his cock – and, Seven Hells, he wished she had done it! That she had killed him right there. He didn’t want to live in a world where someone would pull him away from her.

He was exhausted. There had been a never ending line of people congratulating them last night, most of them lords and ladies that just a couple of days ago called Jon a traitor behind his back. Some of them said it to his face too. Now they called him king once more, but there was a shadow of suspicion behind their cold looks at him still. Earning back their trust would cost him a whole lot more than just saying some vows before the heart tree.

Sansa and he had barely eaten, too busy thanking everyone for attending, for wishing them well, for offering their advice. But somehow there had been music, and someone even went as far as singing, and even though Jon could feel a pair of violet eyes piercing his skull when he stood up he still reached out for his wife’s hand and danced with her until there were no more songs to sing.

_Wife. My wife._

No one had called for a bedding ceremony. Sansa and Jon had wished all those present a very pleasant night, at some point, and left for Sansa’s chambers. Jon was certain his night had been far more pleasant than anyone else’s, though much more strenuous. He had taken his sweet time, lavishing her, worshipping her, and Sansa had only returned it tenfold, her delicious mouth producing all sort of pretty filthy sounds against his ear, her nails tearing at his skin desperately each time she was about to peak again.

_My wife. Mine._

Sansa’s cold fingers stroked the back of his head, and Jon groaned again. He had no willpower to part from her, and yet he must, even though he wanted nothing more than slide inside of her again and make her scream his name until her throat hurt. But with a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh he finally peeled himself from her, his heart breaking.

“Good morning, husband” he heard her mumble behind him, the tips of her fingers exploring the expanse of his back as he fished his breeches from the ground and another knock shook the walls.

“Just a moment” Jon growled, maybe too harshly. Sansa curled her arms around him, and her mouth was kissing down his neck. Somehow it soothed him. “Please.”

“I’m sorry, your grace” Maester Wolkan said, from the other side of the door. “But it is an urgent matter the one that forces me to disturb yours and my queen’s rest.”

He looked at Sansa over his shoulder, and her frown mirrored his.

Jon passed her her shift and her cloak – or was it his cloak? He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know what was his or hers anymore. And it didn’t matter.

_I am hers and she his mine. That’s all that matters._

The maester’s face was completely devoided of colour. The man gulped, his wide eyes roaming from Jon’s to Sansa’s and then to his feet.

“What matter brings you, then?” Sansa urged, standing by Jon’s side. And though she had tried her best her voice still sounded somewhat shaky.

* * *

The unthinkable. The unimaginable.

The Wall had melted down. And with it their best hopes. The only thing that stood between them and death.

And now the dead were on their doorstep, and so would be Cersei anytime soon. But somehow Sansa hadn’t found a moment to despair, to cry. To think, even. She had pulled a dress from her trunk, had quickly braided her hair and was reaching for the door handle while Jon just sat there, his hands between his head, his whole world collapsing around him.

He knew there was a war to fight. He was painfully aware of that almost every instant of his day. Almost, except for the precious moments he spent with her, or his siblings. Those rare moments they could pretend they were just a normal family on a time of peace.

Yet his fingers curled around her wrist, keeping her from leaving. From leaving him.

“Jon, please. We need to make arrangements. We cannot waste time” she pleaded. But she couldn’t bear facing him. Not now.

Jon took a long breath, and forced himself to stand. The air around them was still warm but his heart was cold. He clutched her hand, and she returned the gesture twice as fiercely, like they could draw strength from each other. But what happened, when both of them were tired?

He was tired. He was tired of so much fighting, even more now that there was this stupid dream in the back of his mind, of hearth and home and a family.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

“I won’t leave you behind. I can’t” he whimpered, his vision clouded by tears.

“Behind and ahead is just a matter of perspective” Sansa sighed, turning towards him, and her cheeks were already wet. She smashed her tears with her free hand, and Jon could swear he saw her clean her nose with her sleeve, but she would deny it forever. “And if they win it won’t matter anymore. You said so yourself.”

He crushed her against him, as if his own flesh could absorb her and he could keep her safe under his ribs, inside his wounded heart. His hand went to the back of her head, his nose to that sweet spot on her neck and he inhaled the familiar scent of her and, somehow, she smelt of him too. It should be of no wonder, since he could often feel her smell on his tunic all day after he had held her in a dark corner in the morning.

“I was wrong, sweetheart” he whispered against her ear, and Jon couldn’t tell if the sob that shook their bodies was his or hers. “It will. It _does_ , Sansa. It matters to me.”

She caged him in her strong embrace, her mouth covering his cheek with sloppy kisses.

This was their moment of weakness. As soon as they left the safe walls of their chambers there wouldn’t be time for this sort of display. He was a king supposed to lead their forces to war, and she was a queen that needed to protect those who couldn’t follow him.

“Promise me, Sansa” he asked, though he knew it was worthless. He knew it wasn’t in her hands to keep her word, if she gave it. But still, it was one thing less to be concerned about. At least he would know she would fight for it. “Promise me you’ll be safe. I don’t care if Winterfell burns to the ground, I don’t care if you surrender it to Cersei. Just promise me _you_ get out of this alive. Promise me, Sansa.”

She kissed him then. Deeply, her tongue hungrily dancing around his and Jon’s hands moved to their own accord, to the small of her back, pushing her even further against him. And even though a heavy blade hung over their heads, even though death was coming for them – for all of them – he still ached for her. He would have committed her kisses and her touches to memory even more ferociously if he had known last night had been the last time he would have her. And that lovely sound between a low chuckle and a groan she had made the third – or was it the fourth? – time she had peaked that night.

For a while, the brief moment his fingers delved into her hair so he could deepen the kiss, he forgot he didn’t pray anymore and asked every power that he would hear her laughter one last time before the darkness engulfed him. And Arya’s and Bran’s and Sam’s too.

_Don’t let me die before I know they are safe. Please. Please…_

But he knew no one would listen to his prayers.

* * *

“This is all your fault!” the dragon queen shrieked, a pale slender finger pointing at Tyrion, then at Jon. “All to try to convince Cersei… And what for?”

Jon took a long breath, closing his fists at his sides, his eyes fixed on the table before him without really paying attention to anything on it. That was hardly the time to have that conversation.

But if it was he would tell Daenerys of House Targaryen a couple of things. Like _she_ had been the one to push him towards that mission. Like _she_ had been the one to ride her dragons beyond the wall. Like Benjen Stark-

“Your grace, if I may” Ser Davos interrupted, his voice just as strong as it was calm. “I think we should be making arrangements for our departure right now. The Others must have reached Last Hearth already.”

_Tormund._

He was at Eastwatch last time Jon had seen him. And now Eastwatch had burned to the ground.

“How many were there yet?” Jon asked, his eyes only on Sansa, ignoring the small crowd gathered around the table. Ser Davos was right. They needed to leave as fast as they could.

“Maybe a handful. People who refused to leave, mostly” Sansa said, but she wasn’t as certain as she had sounded, her hand clutching Jon's tightly under the table. “Gendry, how’s the dragonglass weapons' supply?”

Gendry crossed his arms over his broad chest, a sad smile on his face.

“We can’t know for sure, your grace. We don't know how many White Walkers are there, do we?”

“We’ll fight with what we have!” Arya cut, planting her palms on the table. “We’re wasting time, we should leave already.”

Jon shook his head harshly, as if that would do the same to that thought. Sansa inhaled sharply.

“We?” he asked, frowning. Arya had that look on her face. The look he could still recognize, even though many years had passed. The same look she had when her lady mother told her she couldn’t train with the boys.

Arya had always found a way to do it anyway.

 “Aye, I know how to use a sword. And you said it yourself, we don’t have enough men” Arya argued, standing up straight again.

_No. No!_

“That is out of question” Jon said through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring.

She was his sister. Arya was his sister still. She had always been, she would always be. And he would not endanger her.

“You’re no one to say what I can or cannot do!” Arya yelled, and Sansa waved her hands around, trying to remind her they weren’t alone. A war council was hardly a place to have a family dispute.

There was no time for that either. They should have been marching north by now. Jon should have gathered all the men and women he could – even boys and girls, though he preferred to put that thought aside most of the time. Of course, wanting Arya to be safe wasn’t coherent with his other orders. But he was no god. He was only human. He wanted those he loved to be safe. He wanted everyone to be safe, but if he had to choose…

“You are the Lady of Winterfell now and you cannot just leave your people behind” Sansa remembered, shuffling through some papers.

“And Jon is king and he’s leaving. And Daenerys is queen too. And many lords and ladies that will follow Jon as soon as he mounts his horse.”

Arya crossed her arms over her chest, chewing her lip. Jon couldn’t argue against that.

“Someone needs to stay as well, my lady” Tyrion said, stepping forward and glancing at the map before them as well. “If Cersei’s forces are marching north – besides sailing across the Narrow Sea – we’ll need part of our forces to stay in Winterfell too.”

_No one’s safe. No one can protect anyone._

They would all be dead. Maybe it was a foolish errand, to march north at all. Maybe they should all stay inside the walls of Winterfell and pray for the Night King to encounter Cersei’s army first. Cersei knew how to kill them. Her forces could take down some Walkers before the dead reached Winterfell.

“We can’t split our forces. That’s madness” Ser Jorah said, taking a step forward so he stood beside his queen. His khaleesi.

Madness? Madness?

“We cannot leave the North unguarded from Cersei either” Jon growled, before he could control himself. “Ser, your grace, we’re wasting precious time! With each moment we waste speaking our enemies take another step towards us.”

The room fell silent.

_Smarter than father. Smarter than Robb._

_We’re wasting so much time. So much precious time we do not have._

Jon took a long breath, closing his eyes.

“We cannot leave Winterfell unprotected, just waiting for Cersei to take it” he rectified, trying to appeal to Daenerys’s ambitious side. But his voice came out wrong. Low and demanding.

Silence still.

He could not leave them behind. And they couldn’t accompany him either.

_We should have fled south. We should have fled, while there was still time. We might as well be all dead now._

“And we cannot wait for the dead to reach us either” Jon added, trying to soften his previous words. “We cannot just wait here until we’re caught between enemy fire.“

“So what do you suggest then, your grace?” Daenerys spat, walking slowly, menacingly around the table, her lilac eyes shooting sparks at Jon, mostly. “That we magically multiply our forces?”

“What _I_ suggest, your grace,” Sansa said, before Jon could open his mouth, her hands smoothing the front of her dress as she stood up to face the other queen “is that you take all of your forces, and my husband takes the northern ones with him as well. We keep a small garrison, mostly guards and such. Lady Brienne will lead them, of course.”

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. No, it couldn’t be. A small garrison wasn’t a match for Cersei’s forces in any way.

“With Ser Jaime’s help, your grace. He knows more about leading people than I do, I’m afraid” Lady Brienne weighed in, and Sansa nodded.

The dragon queen rolled her eyes.

"Jaime Lannister?" Jon asked. It didn't make any sense. They couldn't trust him.

“The Kingslayer? The safety of what remains of my people might rest on the shoulders of the Kingslayer?” Daenerys yelled at Lady Brienne. The knight didn’t even blink, her face even sterner than usual, if that was possible.

“Are you out of your mind, Sansa?” Arya screeched, clawing at her sister’s shoulder, her grey eyes filled with a dark rage. “He tried to kill Bran!”

A thousand voices rumbled through the room, and Jon’s head spun around, his heart racing.

They had no time. They had no time for this.

And yet they kept on fighting, on throwing insults at each other, and trying to place the blame on someone else.

“That is out of question too” he mumbled, but still the voices rouse higher and higher. Sansa and Arya were growling at each other, Lady Brienne and Ser Davos between the both now, making them see each other’s point. Tyrion and Ser Jorah were trying to calm Daenerys, screeching aimlessly. Even Sam and Gendry had found a way to scream at each other.

Everyone had something to say. Everyone, except for Bran, sitting in a dark corner, his eyes lost, his pale hands folded on his lap.

Jon closed his eyes, and took a long breath.

“That is out of question!”

His broken voice echoed through the walls, roaring even in his ears.

“Someone. Has to stay. Not just a small garrison. An actual army has to stay” he tried again, slightly calmer now that everyone was listening. Jon closed his fists at his sides, searching Sansa.

“We’ll have an actual army. Theon’s coming-“

“That’s not enough” he cut sharply, his chest heaving. Sansa opened her mouth again but nothing but a long pant came out. “Some time ago you warned me against facing Ramsay without enough men. This is not Ramsay we’re talking about. We’re talking about the Night King, and Cersei Lannister.”

She grabbed his hand, and forced him to look at her. Jon heard Tyrion chuckle, but the Imp said nothing.

“Jon, listen to me.” He curled his hand around hers, squeezing it. He needed her. Fuck, he needed her more than he dared admit. They needed each other, and fate was tearing them apart. Again. “Listen! You’re right, they’re not Ramsay. But you faced the Night King twice already, and came out alive, and Arya and I faced Cersei and came out alive. You need to trust us. And you need to trust Theon. He’ll come, I know he will.”

Jon opened his mouth, and so did Daenerys. And so did Arya, realising she would not be allowed to follow Jon to the end of the world.

“He’s coming, Jon” Bran mumbled, and no one dared speak. His eyes were on them now. “He is, and so are others. Powerful allies, powerful enough to terrify our enemies. You should take our army, and queen Daenerys hers, and ride north as soon as possible. We’re wasting time.”

“That was my point exactly. We should go. Now” Arya urged, tugging at Jon’s elbow.

“You’re not coming!” Jon growled. “Father would never forgive me if-“

“I think father has a lot to forgive you for by now!” Arya barked back.

Jon closed his eyes again. Her words hurt more than any punch she might have given him.

“You cannot go, Arya” Bran said, plainly. “What you saw in the woods, on your way home… You have to stay here.”

Arya gasped, covering her mouth and finally freeing Jon.

What was Bran talking about?

“It will have to be enough” Bran declared. “Now take your men, and your horses, and your dragons, and your weapons. Take it all and just leave. We’re running out of time. Winter is here.”

* * *

_Winter is here._

How he wished that wasn’t true. How he wished this was just a bad dream. That everything was just a bad dream and that he would wake up, still a bastard boy sleeping under his furs inside the safe walls of Winterfell. He wouldn’t have had her, if he was still her bastard brother. But at least they would all be safe.

There was a crowd around them. People kissing their loved ones goodbye. Fathers holding their little babies or ruffling their children’s hair, their cheeks wet. Mothers, hugging their sons close to their chests.

“You take care of them for me, boy” he mumbled, stroking Ghost’s large head.

The wolf’s red eyes bored into his very soul.

_He will. Of course he will._

Arya cleaned her cheeks furiously, and Sansa wrapped an arm around her. Surprisingly, she didn’t fight it, curling an arm around her sister’s waist as she accepted her comfort.

“And you take care of that stubborn piece of shit” she rumbled, pointing her chin at the man with a heavy black cloak and a war hammer against his back. “We need blacksmiths too, you know that. Even when there are no wars to fight.”

Jon chuckled, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She kissed him too, and threw herself in his arms, breaking his heart once more.

“He knows how to fight” Jon assured her, putting Arya back down. “Just like you do. Watch over Ghost for me, will you?”

Arya nodded, and Jon nodded back.

He looked at Bran.

“And you’ll take care of them, aye? See that they don’t drive all the castle mad with their bickering?” Jon tried to joke.

Bran laughed. Truly laughed, reminding Jon there was still something of his little brother under all of those Three-Eyed Raven layers. There was still something of the old Arya, and the old Sansa and even old Jon under their thick cuirasses.

_Family. My family. Please, let them survive this. Please, even if I have to…_

“I think that your task is easier than mine, then” Bran jested, a half-smile on his face when he stretched his arms towards Jon and they hugged each other.

He needed to come back. He needed to come back to them.

Sansa smiled at him. A shy smile.

She was holding back her tears, and he needed to thank her for that. If he saw her cry now he would never be able to leave.

_Honour and duty? Just wind and words. Wind and words, and I'm only human._

He delved his gloved hand in her hair, not caring if there were a thousand or ten thousand men around them, and leaned forward to kiss her lips. Her sweet lips. His sweet, brave Sansa. His heart. His heart, pumping the blood in his veins, willing his legs to move. Willing his sword to kill a thousand wights before he fell.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and they both hummed, her hand curling around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. No. He wouldn’t fall. He would come back. He would come back to her arms.

“Come back home.” Her breath fanned against his lips. Jon rested his forehead on hers, his eyes still closed. “Promise me, Jon.”

_Wind and words. Wind and words._

“I will do everything in my power to come back to you, sweetheart” he vowed, giving her another kiss. One last kiss. “I promise.”

“My king” he heard Ser Davos call, behind his back. “The men are waiting.”

He nodded, his lips brushing against Sansa’s gloved hand.

“Until my return-“ he mumbled, his eyes fixed on her blue ones, and how Jon wished he could drown in them, forgetting everything, even the merciless blizzard falling around them. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

“The North is mine” she cut him, with a small giggle. “I know.”

“It was always yours. All this time” Jon felt the need to add.

“It is yours as well. It will always be yours, even if you’re far way. It will be waiting for you to come back home” Sansa assured him, and decided she should be the one to give the last kiss.

Ser Davos cleared his throat, and though it took all of Jon’s resolve, he parted from her, his hands slipping painfully slowly from hers.

She gave a slight nod.

Acceptance. She realised he had to go, and she wouldn’t argue against it. So Jon nodded back, before turning around and taking the small walk to his horse.

But there was still one last farewell. His other brother, just as much of a brother as Bran himself, holding his horse’s reins, his fat cheeks redder than ever from the cold.

“I’m staying, after all. Maester Wolkan said he had seen enough of this world already and that I had a small child” Sam said, a sad smile on his usually cheery face when Jon rested his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “I know they don’t need me to – they are all smarter and stronger than I am – but you might need me to say it.”

“Aye. I do, Sam” Jon mumbled, and he hugged him too. “It will mean a great deal to me.”

_Keep him safe. Keep him safe with the others._

“I will look after them for you. No harm shall come to them on my watch. I promise you” Sam assured him, after they parted.

“Thank you.” Jon nodded, tears prickling in his eyes. “And you take care of Gilly too, Sam. Don’t let anything take her from you.”

He mounted his horse, glancing over his shoulder before he could help it.

Sansa raised her hand, waving it slowly. And so did Arya, and Bran, and Sam. And the small crowd behind them.

When Jon spurred his horse, leaving Winterfell – leaving home behind – he couldn’t hold back his tears anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry! They needed to know eventually.  
> Anyway, big hugs to everyone?  
> PS: does anyone have anything against changing POVs (not necessarily to Sansa, btw)?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the delay, nothing special has been happening in my life right now so, for some reason, the need to update fics hasn't happened either. Also, I've been working on some other new stuff as well, so...  
> Anyway, as "promised" (sorta), I changed the POV for this chapter, so we could still stay at WF. There'll be Jon's chapters still but the southern plot seems more appealing for some reason (Clash of Queens, anyone?). Also, I've struggled a little to what the POV character of this chapter might think of all this mess and that's one of the reasons why it took me so long and it's not the longest chapter ever.  
> Hope you like it!

The young lady gestured towards the other chair by the fire, a warm smile on her face.

_Not lady. Queen. She’s queen now._

She didn’t look like a queen at all. At least not like Gilly imagined queens would look like. No rich dresses or complicated hairdos. No crowns of gold and shiny stones. No. Sansa Stark only stood out from the rest of the ladies and maids at Winterfell for her bright red hair.

And still Gilly wouldn’t trust her more than she trusted the silver-haired queen.

“Thank you, m’lady- Sorry. Your grace” Gilly corrected hastily, taking the seat. “I’m sorry, I find this whole title matter a bit confusing still.”

And Queen Sansa liked her titles, more than the young lady who wore man’s clothes that supposedly was her sister. Gilly liked that one better. Arya Stark never called her lady Gilly, like she was a real lady. And though Sam had tried to explain that since he was a lord’s son it was only natural and more than kind of Sansa to call him a lord and his wife – though not by the laws of the southerners – a lady.

But she had been Gilly all her life. Gilly and nothing more. Just Gilly when she had bumped into Jon Snow and just Gilly when she had pushed her son from her belly and just Gilly when she had learnt to love Sam with all her heart.

“It doesn’t matter, lady Gilly. Titles are too confusing for the little they’re worth” queen Sansa said, giving Gilly one of her sweet smiles. “I was born a lady, then a traitor, then a bastard, then a lady again, then a bastard's betrothed, and now a queen. Titles hardly matter, when the northerners can unmade a queen just the same way they made her. Take a look at my husband, for instance.”

Gilly looked at the queen’s lap. She was knitting again, this time a thick grey shirt. Another one, to add to the dozens she had knitted already, all by herself. To add to the hundreds the other ladies and maids and whores had knitted since the men – and some women too – had left for war. That was the fate of women who couldn’t fight. Waiting patiently by the fire for them to come back as whole as they could.

Even Arya had been knitting some shirts as well, though her stiches were as far from perfect as Gilly’s, and the two would more often complain about how long it took them to make a whole row while Sansa and some of the more accomplished ladies had already finished their fronts. Effortlessly and perfectly.

They said both the red queen and the white queen had been through hell to conquer their respective positions. The white queen liked to brag about it. She had never noticed Gilly, merely a maester’s lover. But Gilly had noticed her, and she was terrifying. Brought from the scary stories of her youth, of pale-faced and pale-haired southerners coming to murder and enslave Gilly’s people. She had conquered the lands beyond the Narrow Sea, and now she had come to conquer those on the other side as well. _Their_ side. She had used the violence thrown at her and turned it into her weapon. Burning down whomever dared to stand in her path.

It was the same with the red queen, and yet it wasn’t. Queen Sansa hid behind her gentle smiles, her perfect bows, the elegant way her hand reached out to greet her guests. And Queen Sansa built, instead of burning. And she knitted. She knitted shirt after shirt after shirt, like that would keep the Walkers away from her loved ones. As if the dragon queen had her dragon fire and Sansa Stark had her needles.

And yet, Gilly knew she herself was more fortunate than any of them. She had no dragons, no crown, no kingdom. But she had the man she loved a couple of steps down the hall, and her little son playing safely in a corner of that same room, instead of wielding a sword against an army of dead men.

Though all of that would amount to nothing if queen Sansa was wrong. If Theon Greyjoy and his sister didn’t arrive in time. If those mysterious powerful allies lord Bran had talked about didn’t come in the end.

“I’m not a lady, your grace” Gilly mumbled, closing her eyes and dearly wishing she would stop using that title. “I’m Sam’s mistress and little Sam’s mother, nothing more.”

“And that is no small feat. But see, Gilly? Is it alright if I call you just Gilly then?”

_Please._

The queen waited for her to nod before continuing.

“Titles are indeed confusing, even to me. I suggest we forget them altogether, at least when it’s just us here.” Sansa shrugged, but Gilly wasn’t certain she was too comfortable with that either. They had different costumes down south, and Sansa and Gilly would never be equals. What good was there on pretending they were? “After all, we are just women, knitting by the fire.”

Gilly lowered her eyes. She didn’t feel like knitting.

She knew her letters, and sums too. She knew now the basic aspects of healing, and she had found out Jon Snow was Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son before anyone else, even though Sam had told her she should be silent about it. Just like she should be silent about little Sam not being his real son.

_So many lies. Lords and ladies and kings and queens build their castles on top of lies._

She liked reading, and writing, and healing. But she dreaded knitting, no matter how necessary it was. She dreaded it, and she was terrible at it.

“And you have been a dear friend, it doesn’t sound right to hear a friend calling me ‘your grace’, does it?” Sansa continued, her eyes returning to her work.

It was Gilly’s turn to shrug. There was no use in fighting her on that point.

“No, it doesn’t” Gilly agreed, leaning back against the chair as she realised she had been sitting stiffly on its edge, trying too hard to behave like a proper lady when she wasn’t one. She would never be one. And she didn’t want to be one. “It doesn’t, Sansa.”

The queen chuckled, her fingers never stopping their nibble motions, forming the small knots that would eventually make some man’s shirt.

“See? Now that sounds better!”

The room fell silent.

Silence was a strange thing on those busy days. Men and women and children arriving at any time. Sometimes even in the dead of night, their bones clanking almost as loudly as their teeth, their horses thinner than those of the dead would be. Nobles and common folk alike. And every single time Sansa Stark was there to receive them in the courtyard, her heavy cloak over her shoulders and a long red braid down her back. All gentle curtsies and gentle smiles.

Sam’s mother and Sam’s sister had those smiles too. And they had been kind enough to Gilly. But there was something about that queen… Her bright blue eyes saw everything, though she could easily pass as more foolish than she truly was. But what for? Pretending to marry the man she loved out of duty… Why hide her feelings from her people? And then smile to people less deserving of her smile than Jon Snow.

_Lies. Lies, lies, lies. Kings and queens do nothing but lying and burn each other._

She would never forget Mance Rayder burning. Not only the sight of it, but the distinctive smell of it, so much like that of the rabbits they roasted at Caster’s Keep when they were fortunate enough to catch them. And the cries. The terrible cries not even her hands could keep from her ears, like a pig being butchered. They didn’t come across too many pigs beyond the Wall, but still Gilly remembered the dreadful shrieks when a couple of her sisters had cut a pig’s throat.

_Kings and queens all die like animals. Standing above everyone else all their lives just to die like animals._

Gilly had heard the dragon queen burned her enemies as well, and so had her father before her. And so did the other queen, the one-handed knight’s sister. Cersei, she was called. So, no matter how many gentle smiles Sansa Stark awarded her with, Gilly couldn’t trust her. Southern queens and kings couldn’t be trusted. They liked their fires and their killings too much.

“You wanted to see me” Gilly reminded Sansa. She didn’t know any lady’s songs to talk about, any southern stories, the names of the lords and ladies pledged to Jon and Sansa’s cause. She didn’t know what to talk about with this woman when the silent deafened them.

And the Queen in the North certainly had better things to do than teaching a wildling girl her letters.

_Shireen was a princess. But Shireen was just a girl. And the Red Woman burned her too._

“Yes, about that…” The queen trailed off, dropping her needles on her lap. “I wanted to ask you something, but I’m afraid it’s too personal. I don’t want to disturb you, really. I really don’t.”

Gilly noticed a dirty nail on her fingers, and cleaned it hastily.

But Sansa curled a cold hand on hers, and there was a fear in her blue eyes, a deep frown on her usually blank face.

“I mean, I understand it if you don’t want to talk about it. There are things about…” Sansa took a long breath, closing her eyes, and Gilly saw the cracks on her porcelain appearance. On her curtsies and smiles.

Maybe there was a dash of truth to Sansa Stark’s character. For she was a character. The woman – the real woman – wasn’t known to anyone besides herself. Maybe not even Jon Snow knew her. Maybe not even Bran Stark, and Sam said the boy saw everything that happened everywhere.

“I really don’t mean to pry, it’s not that” Sansa assured her, clutching her hands. “It’s just… I have no one else to ask about it. No one I trust, that is.”

Gilly almost jumped out of her skin.

No, there was just another trick. She doubted a woman like her wouldn’t have anyone else to talk to. There was a whole flock of other ladies – and some lords too – behind her most of the time. And she had her siblings too. And a direwolf. Sansa had Jon’s direwolf, Ghost, and Gilly always felt more at ease wherever that beast walked by Sansa’s side. It reminded Gilly that she was safer now, with the Others marching south, than she had ever been all her life. It reminded Gilly her son lived and breathed and laughed every day.

“It’s fine” Gilly said, taking Sansa’s hand.

Sansa nodded, her eyes to the fire now.

“I would have asked my mother, or an older sister. Even Robb’s wife, if I could. But I can’t.”

Another pause.

What was she trying to ask? If this was about teaching Sansa how to knit properly Gilly was just about to tell her she couldn’t do it, no matter how hard she tried. But she looked more like she was about to ask Gilly to sacrifice her son to save the kingdom.

“How did you know? How did you know you had a babe in your belly?”

Ah. So that’s what all this was about. Of course. Ladies didn’t like speaking of such private matters.

Gilly chuckled, and Sansa released a nervous giggle.

“I know your belly grows and you don’t get your moon blood. But besides that… You’re a woman, and you’re a mother, and you’re a maester-“

“I’m not a maester” Gilly corrected, hastily. “Sam is.”

“Sam has the same chains as you” Sansa cut sharply. “I doubt maester Wolkan knows more than you two do. But that's fine, we said no titles. Still, how did you know?”

Gilly felt a smile tug at her lips.

“My sister Morag told me, actually. I wretched every morning, and my tits hurt most of the time. I couldn’t stand the smell of onions or raw meat either.”

Sansa sighed, and returned her hands to her own lap.

“I’m sorry, my la- Sansa. I’ve been rude. I shouldn’t have said it like that” Gilly tried to apologised.

Sansa shook her head.

“No. I like that about you. I like it quite a lot, actually. I like your bluntness” she mumbled, twisting her fingers in her lap. “One needs a brush of honesty when their days are filled with flattery, don’t they?”

“So you have Jon’s child in your belly?” And now it was Gilly’s turn to grab Sansa’s hands.

Jon Snow had saved her. Jon Snow had said hers was a pretty name and it had soothed her or some reason. Jon Snow had been the first kind man she had met. The first to show her not all of them existed with the sole purpose of beating and raping women. Jon Snow had brought her to Sam. He had given her so much happiness… He deserved some for himself as well. He deserved a wife and a babe waiting for him to come back for the war. To hold his child in his arms.

“I don’t know yet. It’s too soon since the last time we- It’s too soon.”

There were tears on Sansa’s eyes, but with a couple of blinks they were gone and her face was collected again.

“How do you manage, Gilly?” Sansa was facing her again, their hands linked on Sansa’s lap. And somehow Gilly was more at ease now. The red queen didn’t seem so frightening now. She seemed almost - almost - human. “Jon told me your story, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. It’s not my shame to carry.”

It was Craster’s shame to carry, if he was still alive. But Gilly couldn't care less.

Sansa frowned, and in a heartbeat her face lit up, a smile on her lips.

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right” she agreed, nodding. “But still, how do you keep going, after something like that? How do you forget what has been done to you? How do you grasp the last bits of hope you have left, the hope for better times to come, when everything around you is dark and cold?”

“You never forget, Sansa. You can never forget it, it's the only way you don’t let it happen to you or to those you love ever again. Had I forgotten what Craster did to his sons and little Sam wouldn’t be here today” Gilly explained, looking at her son, turning the pages of a small book filled with colourful drawings Arya had lent him, blissfully oblivious to that conversation.

Sansa nodded again.

She would never tell Gilly what had happened to her. But Sam had given her an idea, based on some words exchanged with Jon here and there. Nothing too specific, surely. But a girl left behind with her family's enemies and married twice against her will surely hadn't had a very happy life.

“As for hope, what do we have left, if we lose it? We might as well die now, if we stop believing. Why wait?” Gilly added. “There is still some goodness in this world. I don’t know many people, but Sam is kind, and so is your husband, and so is your sister. And so are many others, waiting for the dead and Cersei to trap us here between their armies. Why fight, if we lose hope?”

Sansa grabbed her work once more, and Gilly let her shoulders fall. She had spoken too much again.

It was too difficult to speak with this woman.

“I don’t fight, Gilly. I just knit shirts and gather wheat. You can ask anyone you find and they’ll tell you the same.”

“And I can’t even knit. And I can’t even ask those great lords to send their food to Winterfell. And yet if we stop, what happens to those who fight for us?”

The other woman gave her an understanding smile.

Gilly hoped that, for once, she had said the right thing. She reached under her chair for her sewing basket. She was terrible at it, but she would give her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super sure about all this, so tell me what you think, pretty please! As usual, thank you some much for your support, you guys are the best! <3 <3 <3


	10. Chapter 10

“Ever since I’ve met you, Snow, my life has been a freezing hell!”

Jon tried to chuckle, but his teeth chattered harshly instead, making his laughter almost inaudible over them.

When the blizzard wouldn’t let them advance anymore they had camped by the Long Lake, frozen like a huge black mirror. Dark. Darker than Jon's thoughts. Fires had been lit all through the forest, their army extending as far as the eye could reach. The first alliance in years between Starks and Targaryens and yet they still could lose that war. The greatest war of them all. The only one that mattered.

And not even staring right at the flames in front of him Jon could have forgotten it. Not even for a night of well deserved rest. The dead would be marching, and therefore the living had to march as well. Before the first rays of sun had peaked through the Lonely Hills they had broken camp and returned to the road. The days were getting shorter with each sunrise, with each mile north. They couldn’t waste any time. Not when the dead probably marched day and night, not caring about the lack of light to keep going when they had lived - existed in almost permanent darkness.

Jon clutched his cloak tighter around his shoulders, covering his nose with the wolf pelt, hoping that it still smelled a little bit of home.

_Home… My arse is freezing so they can have a home._

“Aye, you should have been warned by the name, Waters” he retorted, relaxing his stiff fingers on the reins. He had burnt a hand a long time ago. He would lose one to frostbite before this war was over, he was certain of it.

_Or maybe I’ll lose more than that._

They rode side by side, Ser Davos’s horse just a couple of strides ahead, and those of the Dragon Queen and Ser Jorah and Grey Worm so far behind on their column they couldn’t even see them. Jon had convinced them the northern army should ride in front of the foreign army, for they knew the land better. Also, that had been the perfect excuse to put more dragonglass blades on the northerners’ hands. Daenerys and her people had their dragons. The North had nothing.

_That’s not true. They have a reason to fight for. A higher purpose. Home. Home speaks louder than fear and loyalty._

“Sam’s the smart one” Gendry shouted over the cold winds. “I bet my frozen butt cheeks he’s sitting comfortably by the fire now, reading some book of his, and sleeping in his wife’s warm arms every night.”

“You’re frozen butt cheeks mustn’t be worth that much right now” Ser Davos yelled, looking at them over his shoulder, and both Jon and Gendry chuckled.

“Do you know that the brothers of the Night’s Watch used to mock him?” Jon said, smiling sadly as he recalled the boys calling Sam ‘Lady Piggy’. Most of those boys were dead by now - or would be. “But you’re right, he’s the smart one. I spent my time dreaming about being a ranger while Sam was becoming a maester, a husband and a father under everyone’s noses.”

Sam was quiet and gentle. Sam didn’t seem brave and bold like the other boys, and people had mistaken it for weakness. Even Sam’s own father had thought him weak. But Sam had a good chance of surviving this war. He could always leave Winterfell, go as south as south went, and take Gilly and her son with him. Arya and Bran and Sansa too. He had promised Jon he’d look after them.

Jon frowned.

It was always the gentle ones, wasn’t it? The ones no one expected anything from? He remembered a red haired girl with a red nose and a pale face. She didn’t have an army, a family, a roof or even a cloak on her back. And now she owned half the continent, all by her own right.

_Let her live through this. Take my life, if needed be, but let her live. Let her find some happiness yet._

“They were the stupid ones, then. _We_ are the stupid ones” Gendry pointed out, cursing under his breath against the murderous cold. “Arya always said I was stupid. I always thought that was her particular way of expressing some sort of… Affection? I don't know, I should have taken her more seriously. I should have listened to her when I had the chance, I guess."

“Do you love her?” Jon asked, before he could really consider it. Seven Hells, they were going on yet another suicide mission – killing the dead, defeating winter itself. There were only so many of those missions a man could survive.

Jon turned to his left, trying to catch Gendry’s reaction. But surprisingly his horse wasn’t there anymore, so Jon halted his, looking over his shoulder.

“So?” he insisted, and even Ser Davos stopped, as if he too awaited Gendry’s answer. They were all becoming worse than blushing maids gossiping behind their hands, weren’t they? Or maybe their days were so filled with despair ever since they had left the safe walls of Winterfell they needed something else to think about. Maybe thick bearded men and blushing maids weren't so different when social conventions were put aside.

“I…” Gendry trailed off, before spurring his horse and reaching the other two men again. Jon couldn’t tell if his cheeks were red from the cold or if he was truly embarrassed. “Aye, I think I might. I don’t know, Jon. It’s like… It doesn’t matter.”

“He’s just afraid you’ll try to kill him, Jon” Ser Davos teased, turning his back on them once more. “You know, there are a few precedents...”

Jon felt his cheeks burn.

“It’s hardly the same, is it?” he argued, that fire rumbling low in his belly again. “Their intentions weren’t the same as Gendry’s, were they?”

“And what are Gendry’s intentions?” Ser Davos shouted over his shoulder.

Gendry was getting redder and redder with each passing moment.

“It doesn't matter. She’s a lady and I’m a bastard” he mumbled.

Jon tried to bite his lip, but he still burst out with laughter. And so did Ser Davos.

Gendry’s jaw and his grip on his reins tightened, and Jon feared the large hammer on his back. Robert Baratheon had killed Rhaegar Targaryen with a hammer just like that one, and history had a weird way of repeating itself.

_Rhaegar Targaryen is not my father._

Even Ser Davos was more of a father to Jon than Rhaegar had ever or would ever be. The Onion Knight’s loyalty had cost Jon nothing. He probably wouldn’t have survived Dragonstone without him. They probably wouldn’t have two dragons and the dragonglass now if it wasn’t for Ser Davos.

“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t laugh. It’s just- It amazes me that that’s your main concern, that’s all” Jon tried to apologise.

“Well, I think I’m not on her list” Gendry grunted. “At least I wasn't a couple of years ago. That must amount to something.”

Jon really shouldn’t say anything to Gendry. And yet, they might die before they even had a chance to camp again.

“If it’s of any comfort, I think she might care for you too." Gendry snapped his head towards Jon, hearing him intently. "She asked me to look after a certain bull-headed someone. Not exactly those words, but still... You get the point.”

“She did?” Gendry’s eyes grew wide, and Jon nodded.

_In another world, he would be my brother. We would be brothers, like father and the late King Robert. A Baratheon lord for a Stark lady._

And Gendry knew Arya. He really knew her, he knew the wild girl she had been and the fierce headstrong woman she had become. And he respected her – no, he admired her for it!

“Sansa could legitimize you, when all this is over. And if Arya agrees to it, of course” Jon said. Gendry needed hope. They all needed hope. They needed to be reminded they were marching for something. They needed a reason to keep fighting even when all seemed lost. They needed a reason to come back, instead of making silly sacrifices when death seemed unavoidable.

_Like trying to capture a wight._

“She’s her own woman after all” Gendry agreed.

“I think that’s a dangerous talk, the one you two are having here” Ser Davos warned in a low tone, somehow appearing at Jon’s right, an eyebrow raised at the both of them. “Any heir of King Robert’s has a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than any heir of a Targaryen king. Queen Daenerys might not like the competition.”

Gendry shook his head, some snowflakes falling from his dark hair.

“She’s the rightful heir to the throne, isn’t she? She’s the last Targaryen.”

Jon took a long breath, staring at the white vastness in front of them, shyly reflecting the light of the sun. How could everything seem so bright and pure and yet their path so dark and full of despair?

_No. We have to keep going. For them. For them._

“Robert was king by right of conquest. Like the Boltons with Winterfell” Jon said, stopping for another long breath before he spoke again. He hated that part of their history. He hated that their home had fallen into those vile hands. He hated himself for not coming for _her_ when he had the chance.

But he had enjoyed destroying Ramsay’s face. He had loved it with all the rage in his heart. The sound of bone smashing under his fists, the hot thickness of Ramsay’s foul blood soaking his knuckles. He had loved it. He had loved every last bit of it.

Just like he had loved having that snake’s slender neck between his fingers. The power he felt, knowing he could squeeze all life from Baelish with just the firm grip of his hand. He had loved it, and he loathed himself for it. That rage he couldn't control. That rage would be his doom.

“We didn’t just arrive at Winterfell and said it belonged to Sansa” Jon chewed.

“She wouldn’t fear a bastard, even a legitimized one" Gendry argued. "A bastard never sat on the Iron Throne. Not even a legitimised one.” 

“Careful, now” Ser Davos almost barked.

Jon’s head spun around.

_No. A bastard never sat on the Iron Throne. That was the whole point of lying about Lyanna and Rhaegar, was it not?_

The three of them fell silent. All was silent, except for the gentle trot of the horses, crushing the virgin snow under their feet, and the unforgiving winds howling in their ears. But they didn’t cry about treason anymore. They sang of home now. Home and love. Death too. And yet Jon dared to dream. Just for a little while, when everything was quiet and though they marched to their deaths it still seemed too distant a thing. His hand went to the strap of his cloak, to the small direwolves engraved there. The wolves of Winterfell. Sansa, Arya and Bran.

_Sansa…_

He had gone down that same road with her on what seemed like another life now.

There had been another life after that one. A fleeting life, merely a dozen days or less, when they had dreamt of a peaceful happy life. When her mouth had met his a thousand times and they had found solace in each other’s arms. He had kissed her scars a thousand times, as if his love for her could crush all the horrors they had done to her like her kisses on his wounds had scared away his own terrors. It was who they were. They took care of each other. She protected their people, their home and their family and in turn he tried to save their world. One couldn’t exist without the other. Or could, but they were something else entirely, together.

_The wolves of Winterfell._

Their time would come again. Theirs and Arya and Gendry’s and Bran’s and Sam and Gilly’s.

Theon’s too.

Theon had saved Sansa’s life once, and for that Jon had forgiven what he could. And that dream… That dream of a better time. Of spring. That dream rested on Theon’s shoulders once more.

_He’ll be there._

Gendry shivered, growling in protest.

“I can’t believe I’m going to freeze to death without kissing that rowdy ruthless beautiful clever girl.”

Jon and Ser Davos laughed, and Gendry shook his head.

“What? Make fun of me all you want. I’m stupid, that’s the end of it. Arya was right all along” he shrieked, but it was too late. He was laughing too now.

The horses before them halted abruptly.

Jon peeked over the dozens of fur covered shoulders. But he saw nothing unusual. He exchanged glances with Ser Davos and Gendry, both of them frowning.

The Others. The dead had reached them.

Jon’s blood drummed in his ears, his fist around the pommel of his sword. He was ready to fight. He would slay a thousand of them. But – seven hells! – he didn’t wish to die. And he didn’t want to fight either. Or at least not right now, when their men advanced in a thin column. The wights would catch them off guard and slice right trough them.

But something was wrong.

Why hadn’t they blown the horn?

“Jon!” he heard Ser Davos call, but it was too late. Jon had spurred his horse, advancing between the frozen men in front of him.

What had stopped them? Was the road blocked? If the road was blocked they would have to turn around and that would make them lose precious time. Time they didn’t have. The dead could reach Winterfell before they reached them.

_Sansa. Arya, Bran… Sansa. Sam and Gilly. Arya. Bran. Sansa… Sansa!_

“Where the fuck’s that lil’ shit you call king?” he heard someone shout, and his frown deepened. How could it be? _How_ could it be? “You bunch of fucking kneelers, all of you! Move aside!”

“Your grace” someone mumbled, but Jon had dismounted already, his eyes blown wide as he stared, not trusting what they saw.

A giant, with dense red hair and dense red beard, covered in snow. Part of his nose was missing, and so was part of his left ear. The hand pushing everyone aside had at least two fingers missing and a third was pitch black.

“Ah, there you are, King Snow! I thought my pecker was going to fall off before these cunts would let me see you!”

If Jon wasn’t so relieved he might have laughed of Tormund’s jest. But he couldn’t. He had thought him dead. He had thought them all dead.

“It’s Stark now” Jon corrected, a small smile on his face as Tormund crushed him against his chest.

* * *

“How long till they meet us, then?” Ser Jorah asked, his fingers drifting over the map.

Tormund shrugged under the heavy cloak they had put on his back, taking a large gulp of that disgusting fermented goat’s milk someone from the Free People in their army had put in his hands. And though he sat by the fire his body was still shaking, as if his blood was so cold he couldn’t get warm anymore.

Jon took a long breath, staring at his boots.

“You’ve seen them, like Jon, and the boy, Gendry. Like your queen” Tormund chewed, the white liquid drenching his beard as it dripped from the corner of his mouth. Ser Davos wrinkled his nose at the sight. “It’s not like they move at a normal speed - living people normal speed, that is.”

“Is it true they have Viserion?” Daenerys asked, her hands clutched tightly over her stomach.

_Not the Dragon Queen now. The Mother of Dragons._

“Viserion?” Tormund frowned, his eyes drifting across the tent in confusion.

“The dragon, Tormund” Ser Davos clarified.

Tormund cackled loudly, his face even more terrifying now that half of it was missing.

“I didn’t know that beast had a name!” he mocked, and Jon glared at him, trying to warn him against those sort of… Expressions. “Aye, they have a fucking big whight dragon now. How d’you think they crossed the Wall, hey? It's not like they just climbed it.”

Daenerys hand tightened on the edge of the table and she lowered her eyes.

“I’m sorry” Jon said, before he could think. It was her fault, really. But still, he could feel her sadness. She loved those beasts as if they were their own children. The only children she’d ever have.

_If those at Winterfell die it’s my fault too._

And his faith was faltering with each step he took away from home.

Theon wouldn’t fail them. And neither will the Starks.

"No, that beast melted it to the ground, right with Eastwatch and the most of the men" Tormund continued, not caring if the Mother of Dragons was listening or not. "Aye, we run as fast as we could, there was three of us at least, but I lost them somewhere along the way."

“I should have helped you, when I had the chance. We could have saved the kingdom, while there was still time” Daenerys muttered, as if more to herself than the rest.

Jon shook his head, a deep frown on his forehead.

He couldn’t believe it. Was she truly being reasonable, after all this time?

_It’s too late for that now._

“Aye, you should have listened to Jon” Tormund chewed, taking another large gulp of his drink.

“There’s no use in pointing fingers now” Ser Davos cut, his hands behind his back as he advanced towards the table, his eyes on Jon.

Jon nodded, his own silent way of thanking the knight.

Why Ser Davos stood at their side was a complete mystery. He gained nothing from it. Position, maybe, but he had asked for nothing ever since he had joined Sansa and Jon in rallying the northern houses. And he had been given nothing yet. They should have given him a castle, maybe, so he could marry a lady of his choosing and start a new family of his own. But Jon was thankful to have him on this dark days. And maybe the Onion Knight just wanted to be on the side of the living when this war was over. Jon wouldn’t question the motives of a true friend.

“Daenerys Targaryen has two dragons still” Grey Worm said, looking at some point behind Tormund’s shoulder. “Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen can win. Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont can lead her armies to the dead right now, if she wants to. And she can ride her dragons.”

“So they can have three dragons then? Sounds like a plan, little man” Tormund scoffed, putting his jug away. He stood up, casting a horrific shadow over the map of Westeros. “Look, I’ve seen that undead beast. I’ve seen the Wall crumbling to the floor, and men – brave men, not only your crows, but _free_ men as well – shitting down their legs when they saw that dark monster spitting blue fire at them.”

Daenerys sighed, shaking her head. When Jon looked at her there were tears streaming down her face. And he pitied her. He truly pitied her, for she had nothing. She was utterly alone. And Jon remembered maester Aemon's words about a Targaryen alone in this world. 

_Take off your dragons and what are you? You have nothing, Daenerys Targaryen. No one would follow you if not for your dragons._

“We cannot win this, can we?” she muttered.

They couldn't. They never would. Maybe she had been right all along. Maybe they should have fought Cersei first. At least they had had a chance of winning against her, with three dragons and almost three quarters of Westeros and part of Essos with them.

And then what would have happened? The dead would have marched south and killed them all. In the end, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Maybe we can’t. Maybe we can” Ser Jorah said, clutching her hand. “But, Khaleesi, we need to try. If we turn our backs now we have no chance of surviving this.”

The Dragon Queen gave him a weak smile and a short nod.

“Well, then, give me one of those nice dragon blades of yours and let’s kill some dead cunts, shall we?” Tormund cried out, his arms around Jon and Ser Davos shoulders. He put his mouth against Jon’s ear, the stench of that awful drink and sweat and rotten flesh invading Jon’s nostrils and making his stomach clench. “And you, Snow, stop worrying about your lady, will you? She has my big woman with her, she’ll be fine. And she’s kissed by fire too, you know what that means.”

He gave Jon’s back a mighty slap, for good measure.

“What does that mean, 'kissed by fire'?” Ser Davos asked, after the others had said their goodbyes. Tormund offered him some goat’s milk, and the knight’s face of disgust matched that of Jon’s.

“It means that King Snow will put his pecker in anything with red hair, that’s what it means.” Tormund’s broken laughter was loud enough to reach Dorne. “Though I must warn you, boy, if you try anything with me I might have to kill you. Or lady Brienne might. She has murder in her eyes, I’ve seen it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy, TaleWeaver?  
> Btw, just forget the 12 chapter thing, okay? Forget it!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Sorry for taking so long to update, but a lot of things changed in my life. I'm a trauma/orthopaedics surgery intern now (and that was kinda my goal, so yay!) and I'd like to thank you all the amazing support and the patience you have given me all these months.  
> So here's the update, hope you enjoy!

She didn’t recall feeling so cold south of the Wall a few moons ago. But the dead were coming and even warmer days were running away from them.

Gilly remembered Sam’s family home and how warm it was that far south. She remembered the pretty dresses, and the gentle smiles, and the shameful amount of food on her plate. And yet she felt much warmer now, her arms wrapped around Sam’s wide back, his hands covering hers over his chest, her nose hiding on that soft spot behind his ear, the familial scent of burnt wax shrouding her.

He spent his days with his face buried in papers and ink until the late hours of darkness. Helping the queen keeping track of the grain stock, the towns and cities that still needed to be evacuated, the number of blankets and coats and cloaks that were ready to be sent north or just to the courtyard to be distributed to those taking shelter at Winterfell. And at Winterfell there were always enough candles for its maester. The queen made sure of that.

“My father was right all along, Gilly” Sam whispered, pressing a kiss to her hand.

She frowned, but said nothing. She would hear him first.

He turned around, facing her, though in the darkness of their room it didn’t matter.

“I’m so scared. He was right, I’m a coward. Jon left to fight the Walkers and I stayed behind-“

“You’re not Jon” Gilly cut sharply, cupping Sam’s cheeks and letting his beard caress her hands. “You don’t need a sword to protect the ones you love, Sam Tarly. Not all men and women need swords. I saw the way you stood to your father. And you’re a wizard.”

He chuckled, and she felt his lips brush against hers. Gilly’s hand went to the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him against her.

“You’re right. There are many ways to be brave, I suppose” he muttered almost against her lips, nuzzling her nose with his own. “I want you – the three of you – to be safe. That’s all.”

“We are, Sam. We have you.”

“And I have you.” He laid his large hand over her still flat belly and a small smile tugged at Gilly’s lips. Sam lowered his voice even more, until she could barely hear him. “We should marry.”

Her smile disappeared.

“I hear people whispering behind your back already, Sam. Maesters don’t marry.”

“Nor do they have children, and yet everybody accepted Sam, haven’t they?” he argued, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “Nor do maesters share a room with a woman. And I’m not a true maester. if anything happened to me-“

“Nothing will happen to you.”

“If anything happened to me,” Sam repeated, his voice firmer now “And if you were my wife, surely mother and Dickon and Talla would take care of you and the children for me. Not even my father would be so mad as to send my wife away. Also, with Dickon still unmarried in wartime Sam would be Horn Hill’s only heir and father would protect him.”

Gilly shook her head, a hot rage burning in her belly.

“He disowned you” she reminded him.

Sam sighed and let go of her, staring at the canopy instead, his arm draped over his forehead.

“Fine, he disowned me” he puffed, but his hand under the furs found hers and their fingers intertwined.

It was difficult to get accustomed to the southern luxury, though Sansa had apologized to them when they gave Sam and Gilly those rooms. Supposedly they weren’t fitting for a lord’s son and his wife, but the mattress was so soft it was difficult to sleep on it some nights, the bed wider than the one Gilly had shared with at least a handful of her sisters and the furs thicker than those they had beyond the Wall. And the bedsheets always smelt fresh, somehow. Everything was strange and made her feel uneasy. Everything but Sam, and little Sam, and a day didn’t pass when she wasn’t grateful for having them.

But she didn’t like the idea of her children belonging to Sam’s cruel father. He had been cruel to his own son, why would he not do the same to his grandchildren?

“Nothing will happen to you” Gilly repeated, bringing Sam’s hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles. “You are a wizard, and you have that magical sword that can kill whights, right? Nothing will happen to you.”

Sam sighed again. But this time he said nothing.

* * *

Arya frowned, her eyes on the man they called Kingslayer and a hand around the pommel of her small sword. Unlike Lady Brienne, oddly enough, leaning over the table right next to the man, her queen forgotten as if Sansa was safe enough inside that room.

People had started whispering about them already. About the two Lannister brothers, acting as queen Sansa’s trusted advisors. She had been married to the small man, and some cruel ladies liked to call her ‘Lady Lannister’ behind Sansa’s back. They didn't say it to Gilly’s face, though. They weren’t that stupid. But they thought Gilly was, or that she as deaf as she was quiet, and that was their greatest mistake. Great ladies - and their husbands too - often underestimated the ‘smallfolk’ and the ‘wildlings’ and the extent of their understanding of their conversations. And how much one can hear and see if they remain silent and invisible.

But there were greater concerns on Gilly’s mind than gossip. And now wasn’t the time for silly conspiracies, but the time to make alliances – no matter how odd and unexpected – and lay plans.

“Do you think we can build it?” the small man asked, pointing at the strange drawing before him. “Will it work?”

Like a crossbow, but not quite. Somehow it seemed bigger. More powerful.

Terrifying.

“Cersei said it could kill a dragon. I’m certain it can kill an elephant just as well” Jaime Lannister explained, standing straight and folding his arms over his chest.

Arya confided to her that he had been annoyingly handsome, not so long ago. But now he was just as unremarkable as any man she knew.

_No. Sam is remarkable. But he’s the only one._

“Do we even know what an elephant looks like?” Arya chewed, rolling her eyes.

Jaime Lannister smirked. But in the end he just shrugged. And Sansa started fumbling the cords on her sleeves, as if she was too scared to admit the hard truth.

Gilly bit her lip. It wasn’t her place to say anything. She knew nothing about war and politics. About building or ruling. But she knew something, though it was strange that they didn’t, when until princess Shireen taught Gilly her letters she couldn't even read.

“Well, if we don’t then why can we be so certain?” Arya continued, her hand firmly clasping the pommel of her sword again.

 _Needle_  she called it. Sam’s sword had a name too. And Lady Brienne’s. And Jaime Lannister’s. But four valyrian steel swords were hardly enough to repel two armies, weren't they?

“I…” Gilly swallowed the lump in her throat. “I do, actually.”

And suddenly all eyes were on her, and her eyes on her feet.

“You do?” Sam encouraged, gently clutching her hand.

She nodded, her heart drumming her chest. She thought that, if not Sam, then at least Tyrion Lannister would know. He read so many books, he had been to Essos...

Gilly liked him. He was always courteous with her, and genuinely so. He never, not even once, called her anything but just ‘Gilly’. And he told her so many amazing stories about the South and the lands across the Narrow Sea. Not only glorified versions of battles and weddings, but the ugly parts as well. Gilly had liked the one about Rickard and Brandon Stark the most. It made her understand why the northerners were so wary of the white queen and her kin.

“I-“ Gilly cleared her throat, her fingers tight around Sam’s. It wouldn’t do, being a coward now. “I saw a drawing once. In a book, at the Citadel. They compared it to horses and wolves and lions – though I’ve never seen a lion either. Surely Lord Bran can see them. The elephants, I mean.”

“I don’t” Bran said, his empty eyes piercing Gilly's. “It doesn’t work like that. I need at least a place, some sort of reference.”

She looked at her feet again, her face scalding.

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Gilly?” Tyrion Lannister insisted.

She took another long breath, and forced herself to face the others again.

“The book said something an isle of elephants.”

“The Isle of Elephants, in the Jade Sea?” Sam asked, frowning.

They all looked at Lord Bran, and Gilly was glad the attention had shifted from her.

The boy said nothing, his arms resting over those of his chair, his eyes lost on some point over Arya’s shoulder. He gave a short nod, and that discussion was over.

“If they are smaller than dragons – and I think it’s safe to assume they are –, Winterfell has many towers” Lady Brienne added, her deep voice rumbling across the room as she looked at the Kingslayer. “Maybe if we put one of these machines atop each of them they’ll have enough range.”

Sansa nodded in the queenliest face Gilly had ever seen, considering the situation.

“Either way, we should use them. I saw it pierce through dragon skin" Jaime Lannister said, finally standing straight. "And if they can pierce through a dragon’s skull they can pierce through the undead dragon’s skull as well.”

He might have been handsome once. But now his green eyes were just filled with sadness. His perfect smile was never a full one. And his hair, maybe golden once, was just a strange faded shade of yellow. Like an old useless rag, left too long in the sun.

But the sun hardly shone anymore. Not on those days.

Sansa’s knuckles turned white on the arms of her chair.

“It’s a shame Gendry is not here anymore” Arya muttered, toying with a button of her doublet.

“We have another blacksmith, Arya” Sansa argued, but her hand was already stroking her sister’s wrist, a concerned look on Sansa’s face. “And I’m sure Sam and Lord Tyrion can adapt these plans so they fit our towers, can’t you?”

Gilly rested her hands on Sam’s shoulders, gently massaging them. They put such weight on them. Such weight.

And she didn’t like that conversation. Not one bit.

It meant death was coming upon them, anytime soon now. Be it from the North or from the East.

* * *

Arya pulled her down the long corridors and narrow staircases without muttering anything besides a hushed ‘she needs you’. And though Gilly wasn’t completely certain who ‘she’ might be, she had an idea.

“You mustn’t tell anyone, Gilly” Arya threatened, looking over her shoulder, the determined look on her face not allowing any form of objection.

Gilly frowned, but nodded slowly.

_Highborns and their secrets…_

The two women entered the lord’s chambers without knocking, but the third woman sitting in bed with the furs bunched on her lap, tangled auburn curls around her face and dark circles under her eyes looked nothing like the Queen in the North.

“Thank you, Gilly” Sansa screeched, as soon as Arya closed the door behind her. “I’m afraid I’m in need of a certain kind of… knowledge only you possess. Well, you’re not the only one, but the only one I trust”

Gilly noticed only then, in the cold light of early dawn, that Sansa’s eyes were red, and her sister had caught hold of her hand, squeezing it.

“What’s wrong, Sansa?” she asked, her voice as calm as she managed.

If this was about the war, surely other people would be on that room too. Surely Sansa’s hair would have a pretty perfect braid on it, and she would wear one of her impeccably sewn dresses in the Stark colours, and not a flimsy and seemingly old yellowish shift.

Maybe this was about Jon. But then why not call Sam? And no ravens had arrived at Winterfell for at least three days now. So it couldn’t be that either.

Sansa shoved the covers aside, brusquely, and her free hand covered her mouth to muffle her sob.

“Her maid heard a cry and Sansa asked for me. I said you should know how to deal with this” Arya mumbled, but her arm was already around her sister’s shoulders, Sansa’s face hidden on the Lady of Winterfell’s neck as her body trembled with each sob.

The back of Sansa’s shift was stained too. But not too much, though. Maybe just the first drops of her moonblood then.

But did it matter? She had lost her babe, nevertheless. Be it a real being or just the idea of it.

Gilly shook her head, and somehow tears prickled at her eyes too.

Enough was enough, but this world was too cruel. Beating the same people over and over again, chewing them until there was nothing but frail bones left. Nothing but frail bones and a few dark red spots on what would have been a white shift years ago.

Gilly took the few steps that separated her from the two Stark ladies, and stroked Sansa’s pale shoulder before she could consider if she was allowed to do so or not. She figured she would be, since she had been summoned there.

“I’m so sorry” she mumbled, and Sansa clutched her hand tightly, still sniffling.

“They’ll make me marry again” Sansa mumbled, turning towards Gilly and cleaning her nose on her sleeve. Gilly would have smiled, if the moment wasn’t so grim and dark like the long night that would befall them anytime now.

“No, they won’t!” Arya yelled, covering her mouth as soon as she realised she had spoken too loudly. “Jon won’t fall. I’m sure he won’t!”

Gilly wasn’t so certain. There was death in that room, between the three of them. A great beast, with dark wings and sharp fangs, waiting to suck their life away from them. And no white wolf to scare it off.

She hadn't seen _Ghost_ in at least a couple of days now.

“And there’s two more Starks besides you, Sansa” Arya mumbled, tugging a stray curl behind her sister’s ear. “They won’t make you marry again, I promise.”

Silence fell over their heads, only broken by Sansa’s sobs until even those got quieter and quieter with each breath.

“Did it hurt, Sansa? Does it still?” Gilly asked. She had been a sister, before being a maester in training of sorts. She knew how painful it could be. Maybe it was just her moonblood, and not a lost babe, but it would hurt the same.

Sansa cleaned her eyes, and shook her head.

“Nothing” she whispered, and another tear run down her pale cheek.

Pale like a freezing corpse. Gilly had seen many freezing corpses in her lifetime. And pale corpses with bright blue eyes too, just like those of Sansa Stark. But Sansa was alive, and she needed to be alive for a while yet. They all needed to be alive. It was too soon to give up.

“I felt nothing” Sansa repeated. “I thought… I thought I would.”

Gilly reached for the jug of water by Sansa’s bed, and poured her a mug. The other woman took it with a half-smile.

“Can I take a look, Sansa? Make sure you are not losing too much blood, that is” Gilly asked, her hands firmly clasped over her belly.

Sansa’s sobs returned, and Gilly realised that perhaps she had been too blunt with her words. Southerners weren’t so frank when they spoke, and she should have learnt their ways already.

But the queen said nothing to reprimand her. And neither did her sister. Sansa simply bit her lip, taking a moment to collect herself. She nodded, and pulled her shift up to her waist, in absolute silence. Arya frowned, but said nothing, stroking Sansa’s free hand as the latter raised her knees to her chest, parting her legs.

Gilly took the small candle in her hand, and the room was silent again while she examined Sansa.

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. The blood on her thighs had dried already, and Gilly asked Arya for a wet cloth to clean it.

“That wasn’t-“ Sansa gasped, when Gilly paused at the white scars on her skin, though she had said nothing about it. “It wasn’t Jon. It was before.”

“I know.”

Gilly had known men’s cruelty all her life. She simply tried to be as gentle with her fingers as she managed while she inspected Sansa’s body.

“It doesn’t look too bad” she finally announced, pulling the shift down again.

Sansa gulped thickly. But there were no more tears.

“Thank you, Gilly” she mumbled, reaching for her hand. “Can I get up, then?”

Before Gilly could say anything, Sansa had already left the bed, gesturing for Arya to stand up and tugging at the sheets. They were stained as well.

“Maybe you should rest, Sansa” Gilly advised, closing her hand on Sansa’s elbow. But that didn’t stop her.

“We need to burn these” Sansa muttered, more to herself than to anyone else, ignoring Gilly altogether.  “My shift as well. Arya, stir the fire. That will buy us some time, a couple of moons maybe. And then we’ll figure out what to do. Gilly, do you mind opening the window, so the smell goes away?”

Arya stood still, watching her sister move around the room, throwing the furs to the floor and crumpling the sheets in her arms. And Gilly found her feet stuck to the floor too, trying to figure out how someone who just suffered such a great loss managed to keep the clogs in her head working still.

_There’s ice inside of her. And a wolf’s bravery._

She might not be a warrior, like Jon Snow, or Arya.

No, she _was_ indeed a warrior. Just like Sam.

_Not all warriors have steel swords. Some have only their love and their wits. And they cling to them all they can._

“We can buy more than a couple of moons, Sansa” Arya mumbled, and something behind her eyes changed, for she finally obeyed Sansa’s order, stirring the embers until a small fire rose for them.

Gilly almost run to the window, opening it before the smell of smoke brought Sansa’s maid back.

“I don’t know how” Sansa said, tossing the sheets to the floor before the hearth and letting her shift fall down her body so it joined them. She fished for a clean one on the trunk, and once she was dressed the discarded pile went to the fire. “Once someone notices my belly isn’t growing-“

“It could, though” Arya cut. “I mean, you can sew beautifully. How hard is it to make a false belly?”

Gilly’s heart drummed her ribs and her throat went dry.

“Maybe I should go now” she said, her eyes on the floor as she tried to pass past the two sisters.

There were already too many secrets in her head, she didn’t need yet another one. One day all those secrets would burst past her lips and then someone would find an excuse to burn or behead her. And Gilly had no wish to die just yet.

“No, wait” Sansa all but begged, grabbing Gilly’s wrist, and her eyes were just as pleading as her tone.

The three women sat down on Sansa’s bed, the red queen between the other two. Like they were sisters, when none of them had anything in common. Well, maybe Arya and Sansa did. At least they shared a family name. But Gilly should leave. She hated these secrets. These lords and ladies’ secrets and conspiracies.

She already knew the greatest secret of them all. And if she talked… If Gilly dropped a few words to some maid passing by her on one of the corridors, or a guard standing outside some door… All these lords and ladies’ lives would crumble down to the ground.

Sansa chuckled.

“It’s the second time I burn blood stained sheets to avoid an unwanted marriage” she whispered, looking at her hands on her lap. “But if Jon falls, it won’t matter if I’m with child or not. The dead will win and we will all die too.”

“It might matter. Daenerys has two dragons yet” Arya corrected, clutching her sister’s hands. “We need to think about what to do.”

Sansa scoffed, cleaning her eyes again.

“I guess that in a world without Jon it’s worse if we win this war, isn’t it?” she said, smiling sadly. “Fine, you’re right, Arya. Unfortunately enough there’ll be plenty of dark haired orphaned babes around Winterfell once this is over. Once someone finds the time to count the moons and realise the North’s heir should have been born by then.”

Gilly shivered, a cold hand closing around her heart as she thought about little Sam, and the tiny babe in her belly. What if they were one of those orphans when this was over? What if something worse than that happened? What if they were all dead once the dead marched over them?

A terrible image of a pale corpse with blue eyes freezing her small children with its icy breath crossed her mind.

_What if they were one of those orphans?_

She shook her head, but the sisters kept on talking about that strange plan. A little more wool in the bag by the end of each week, so it would grow gradually as a real belly would. _Little Sam will be heir to Horn’s Hill, if Dickon dies without children. That’s a far better future than a maester’s bastard. And the other one…_ And of course, they would never discuss this ever. Sansa never took off her shift in front of anyone already, too afraid to scare her maids with the marks on her body. That part was easy enough. _The other one… I already love the babe more than anything. I could never be parted from this child._

This was all these people’s fault! She had never had such ambition in her before she crossed the Wall. Never. Surviving was all that mattered. But now she was thinking about her children’s future.

“The babe could inherit the North. The babe could inherit the Iron Throne” Gilly mumbled, and Sansa and Arya snapped their heads at her, their eyes blown wide. “And no one would ever suspect a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm sorry. SPOILER ALERT: don't hate me just yet, okay? Just trust me on this one here.  
> And before anyone says anything about the elephants and Tyrion I'd like to remind everyone that this fic follows show canon in terms of plot and Gilly needed to be important on that scene. If not, what's the point of having her there? Fine, I wrote that part after checking show canon but before checking book canon and then realised I had f-up, but just roll with it, okay?  
> As usual, thank you so so so so much for enduring this! Big hugs to everyone!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry, guys, I know I've been MIA for too long but I had to find a place to live, then I had to get used to the new job, then I'm there pretty much all the time and when I'm not I'm dying in my bed too lazy to do anything... And I know this chapter is kinda short but I wanted to update this fic already so here you go!

He tried his best to suppress it, most of the time. And he succeeded. Most of the time. Jon had learnt to pretend he wasn’t scared a long time ago. But his was not a boy’s reckless kind of bravery. Not the kind one had when they had nothing to lose and everything to win.

Not the stupid courage to run to Rickon even when Sansa had warned him a thousand times against it.

Sometimes he still saw his brother, and that sadistic smirk on Ramsay’s face as that dreadful arrow crossed the sky.

_It was my fault. It was all my fault. I should have ridden faster._

He shook his head in the dark, his neck cracking with the abruptness of the action. Those memories weren’t a good place to go right now. Not with the cold enveloping him with each cold breath that froze his throat. Not with the winds howling outside and shaking his tent. Not with the dead approaching.

_Anytime now._

He had to be brave. Like Robb. Like his brother Robb. And being brave inside the walls of Winterfell was always easy. It was the logical thing to do. The dead had to be stopped, no matter the costs. No matter the odds. And there were a thousand faces at home reminding him he needed to leave and fight for them.

But being brave when he could almost hear their steps outside… Being brave when she wasn’t by his side, clutching his arm with her cold and yet so warm gloved hand... Her hand – it was always her hand – to urge him forward. And now she was gone.

Jon barely caught any sleep anymore. Most nights he just twisted and turned under the furs, his hand reaching for his sword as soon as he heard the sound of feet crushing the snow under them. Most nights he just heard his men’s voices and pressed his fist against his racing heart, as if that would still it. But he was waiting for the moment when all he could hear would be screams of despair and steel cutting bone and flesh.

Without her, nothing calmed him anymore. Even in his dreams he saw nothing but pale bones reaching for his neck and squeezing the life out of him. Sometimes it was a pair of eerie blue eyes searching the halls of Winterfell, a black mouth spitting ice as terrible cries echoed through the stones.

_Sansa… Not Sansa! Please…_

It was the right thing to do. There was no choice.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier for him. He hated not having a choice.

Again.

As ever.

Jon felt lonely. Terribly lonely, even though there were thousands of men camping around. Even though a still healing Tormund had decided to keep guard just outside Jon’s tent, for some reason.

And then sometimes…

He huffed trough cold chapped lips. He was afraid of those thoughts still, even though she was his wife now. Sometimes they warmed his heart, knowing he was doing this for a reason. Knowing that she might be laying on their bed, her red hair splattered across the white pillow, her heart gently drumming her ribs as she thought about him too.

Jon wondered if her lips would feel just as cold as his were. But no. Sansa’s lips were always warm. Warm enough to melt the gentle snowflakes that managed to drift there. He had envied those same snowflakes for quite a while. Maybe he envied them still, now that the warmth of her slender legs wrapped around his waist was slowly fading from his skin. But not from his mind.

And sometimes - tough Jon didn't like to admit it -, sometimes, on the darkest nights when not even the moon and stars dared to shine, a grim, cruel voice on his mind whispered terrible thoughts to him.

_She doesn't love you. She never did. How could such a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman like her love some empty shell of a man like you? She could have any man she wanted._

She probably had forgotten about him, by now. She probably fancied some tall handsome lordling now. A true prince, like those from the stories. Or a knight. Her Florian, with golden hair and bright eyes. Someone like... Someone like Jaime Lannister maybe.

Even Jaime Lannister made more sense than Jon. And to think he had been foolish enough to leave Sansa with the knight. To leave his wife in his care.

He looked like what a king should look like. And Sansa always liked kings.

_I am king now too. She made me a king._

Maybe that’s why she wanted him to be a king so much. Maybe that was the only way she could ever love him.

Jon shook his head again, but this time his eyes prickled and his breath got caught in his chest.

No. No! Those were dark thoughts. Dark thoughts from his dark dead soul. She loved him. Would someone who didn't say and do the things she had said and done for him? It would have been so much easier, if they hadn't loved each other. She would have married someone that made more sense than him, that's for sure. And he would have... He would have vanished from her memory altogether. He would have remained as dead as he was before the Red Woman brought him back.

But maybe it was just the black ice, like dragonglass, piercing through his skull and his heart. The nights were cold and he was lonely. Lonely, but never truly alone, not even when they stopped to take some rest.

A wolf howled in the distance and Jon heard the familiar scrapping of swords being unsheathed.

This time it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. Jon’s body jerked up too, before he could really consider it, his fist closing around Longclaw's hilt, under the pillow Sansa had smuggled between his much more necessary belongings. Jon shook his head at the memory, forgetting his thumping heart and the possibility of death just outside his tent for a little while.

Stupid boy, with stupid fears.

Another howl.

He put on his boots in the blink of an eye, his back complaining about the leather armour digging on his flesh when he tried to get some rest. And he heard the sound of shattering glass, and the screeches and the wet sounds of flesh being sliced before his eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

Jon felt the cold breath behind him, twirling around and piercing the creature’s belly without really devising it in the dark cold night. A loud shriek and an eerie blue flash brightened the night. And human screams. So many human screams. Another shriek, sounding just like the first one, and a flash – golden, this time. And screams, terrible screams, muffling the sound of swords clashing and crashing.

An arrow flew over Jon, piercing a whight’s skull before Jon ducked yet again to avoid another’s spear.

His eyes searched the battlefield for friendly faces for a heartbeat, but not longer. He found Gendry’s hammer smashing an entire undead horse and sending his rider at least half a dozen feet back.

Jon’s heart drummed behind his ribs and some of his curls got stuck to the back of his sweaty neck. His breath came out in short white clouds and his throat was dry with fear. He tried to move, but his feet were stuck to the ground.

He had faced them already. He couldn’t remember exactly how many times, but the last one he had fewer men and they were surrounded. Also, the last time the Wall still stood between the dead and those he loved. And now he had nothing. Nothing but his unimpressive body to stop the Others from reaching his family, and not even all of it. Ser Davos was there with him, and so was Gendry – and if Gendry died Arya would never forgive Jon.

It was too much. It was all too much.

And he wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t enough. He would never be enough.

A cold hand caught Jon’s leg, making him fall with his face on the snow as he tried to kick himself free from the creature’s grip.

And then he saw him. Saw his white-blueish head, and the icy crown on it. His bright blue eyes, shining even in the pitch black night, mouthing what could only be described as an abomination. Children, Daenerys had called them. Their children. But Jon had only seen beasts. Terrible beasts, even though they had saved him at least once and even though he’d need them still. But the one screaming above his head right now wasn’t just a beast. It was something out of his worst childhood nightmares.

The dragon and its rider, with a terrible smirk on his face, so much like that on Ramsay Bolton’s.

_Bolton is dead now._

Another terrible shriek, a pair of bat-like wings covering the silver moonlight and whipping the air around them as the bones around Jon’s leg clawed their way up his breeches, hauling and hauling him through the snow and stone. He could feel the skin of his face tearing against it, taste the blood on his lip.

He tried to thrust his sword around, tried to cut the whight’s arm.

“Jon!” He heard her broken scream, high above him. High above them all. And heard another two sets of bat wings flapping in the cold night air.

But it wasn’t _her_. It wasn’t the gentle voice he had heard a thousand times moaning his name against his ear. Whispering it against the skin of his shoulder. Sighing it like a plea high above him when he buried his face between her thighs.

It wasn’t _her_.

Blue and golden flames met, painting everything green – green like wildfire, he thought briefly, before it engulfed him too.

Everything went dark.

* * *

She all but flew down the stairs as if she had done it a thousand times by now, one hand on the hem of her skirts, the other under her still barely noticeable belly. She had started wearing tighter dresses, as part of their plan. The sooner people noticed the small bump under her dress the sooner rumours would start spreading about the queen’s pregnancy.

That was a clever plan too. Another one. Sansa Stark had a talent for making people say what she wanted to say herself.

But she didn’t look like a queen at, when she practically threw herself to the strange man’s arms with the same affection Sansa only afforded her relatives or closest friends. Gilly had never seen that man in particular. And he didn’t look like a Stark, not with his mousy hair and gaunt face. 

“Theon” Arya muttered, and the pieces fit together.

So that was their saviour, the stranger in grey clothes and dirty hair with a crouching limping woman walking a few steps behind him. And other men too. Many men. Too many to count.

“You look well” the man whispered, his arms around Sansa and hers around him, and if Gilly wasn’t just a few steps behind the Queen in the North she would have missed the words.

He looked younger, up close. Much younger than Gilly had thought at a first glance. But there was something in his eyes. Something she saw on Sansa’s and Arya’s and Jon’s and Sam’s too.  Something she saw on those around them every day. Even Lyanna’s, though she was still too young to understand many things. The world had been cruel to them. Summer was over. Winter was here. And this was no time for summer children.

The Greyjoy’s knuckles brushed against Sansa’s belly and a deep frown shadowed his face. Sansa caught his hand, clutching it tightly, and smiled.

“Jon’s” she mumbled, and Gilly felt Sam’s strong hand on her lower back just as Theon’s face lit up on one of the brightest smiles she had ever seen.

And then the moment had passed, Sansa Stark no longer the woman but the queen again, shouting orders at everyone around and ushering the newcomers inside, a hand still under her belly and a hint of a smile on her face, her blue eyes sparkling with true joy.

“Will this be enough?” Gilly asked against Sam’s ear, hoping no one would hear them.

“It has to be” he said, an arm around her shoulders as he kissed her temple, his large hand stroking Gilly’s belly no longer than a heartbeat. “It _will_ be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you so much for your support! I'll try to answer all your comments soon, I promise! I know, I know, I'm a terrible person and that probably won't improve anytime soon, so I'm sorry. You guys are the best and you deserve better than me. Big hugs to everyone!  
> PS: Those two chapters left? Nop, not just two... But let's see where this takes us. I hope it's not too rushed or anything.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Sorry, sorry, sorry for taking so long to update. My mind has been too busy lately and I was kinda stuck with this story. Don't worry, though. I know where this is going and I have an ending planed and all that. It's just the middle that makes me torture my head over and over. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Somehow they were supposed to save them. Theon of House Greyjoy and the crippled woman.

_No. Not crippled._

The Starks wouldn't like that word.

Still, her hands had been deformed beyond Gilly or Sam’s skills. The Greyjoys’ men mumbled she had always been better with swords and ships than her brother. But that would no longer be the case. She would never carry so much as a needle again, just as much as Bran would never walk again.

But they said their fleet patrolled the Narrow Sea for any signs of Cersei Lannister's army. They said half their men had joined the northerners and the Free Folk on land. They said many a thing. But words were wind. And wind meant nothing against sharp swords.

And yet Gilly kept on hoping. Hope was all she had – all _they_ had, she corrected as she rested her hand on her belly, hoping she would feel the babe move any day now. Hoping it would be born on a better world than her older son or Gilly herself. Hope was what had made her ask Jon Snow for help. Hope would save them all in the end.

Everyone was aware of this, trying to lighten the mood with cheerful songs or glorious tales of heroes of old. Men and women worked night and day, whistling tunes or telling jokes in between, too aware that if the first tear fell or the first anguished cry escaped from someone’s lips then everything would crumble down like a castle made of snow in the first rains of spring. Even Arya was aware of this, keeping her hands – and her mind – busy by knitting enthusiastically every day, when her muscles were too sore to keep training with the men, even though they should be too sore for any sort of needle work as well.

But both sisters were restless, and so were many sisters under Winterfell's apparently cheerful roof, their eyes filled with gloom as they searched the northern horizon, looking for a raven or a half dead horse or an army of bones with empty blue eyes.

Most days Gilly avoided those thoughts.

She avoided those thoughts even more fiercely when her hand dropped to her stomach, gently caressing it. Poor creature. Still barely more palpable than an idea. A mere dream. And on what world would it arrive? What world would they live to it? If there would be a world after all this mess was over. But at least she had Sam, and Little Sam. She supposed she was one of the fortunate ones. But would she still be, when all of this was over? Would this ever be over at all?

The Greyjoy man stretched his hand, stopping it in the air as his eyes searched the queen’s.

_He knows. He knows the truth._

He dropped his hand to his lap immediately, and Gilly frowned. What a cruel world this was, making them all, too soon, too aware of its harshness.

"He used to smile so much back then. Too much" Arya muttered against Gilly’s ear.

He doesn't smile anymore. Not too much, at least. Though there's a hint of... Something, when he looks at Sansa Stark. And though Gilly doesn’t know much about the southerners’ ways this she knows about. He loves her. Maybe not like Jon. Maybe not like Arya and Bran either.

_Maybe there’s something in between._

She has seen that look on that strange girl, from beyond the sea. Not when she looks at her man, but when she looks at her queen. And yet it’s not quite the same. There’s something else in Theon’s eyes. A sadness, but also a strength.

Maybe it has something to do with the walls of Winterfell.

"I knew it then, I guess.” She heard a sad chuckle, her eyes leaving the wool twisting between her needles for a moment. His voice had been low, but still enough for Gilly to hear. Sansa’s gloved hand reached for both of his, in his lap. 'What you did for her' he said. A ton of crimes on my back and just that one right act had been enough for him."

Arya scoffed, her index finger shoved yet again in her mouth.

A trained assassin – if the rumours were true – who couldn’t even handle a simple needle.

“There are too many traitors in Winterfell these days” Arya mumbled, shoving the needle back in something more or less similar to a shirt in her lap. “The Kingslayer, the Imp, the Mad King’s daughter’s minions, the Greyjoys…”

“You really hate the Mad King, don’t you?” Gilly whispered, raising her eyebrows at the other woman.

“He killed grandfather Rickard. And uncle Brandon.” Arya raised her voice, Sansa’s eyes instantly on them and urging them both to speak more quietly. Or shut up at once. “That’s why we will never trust her. That’s why Jon and the rest of our men shouldn’t have rallied behind her.”

Gilly frowned. That story was still somewhat difficult for her to follow.

But there were some things she knew already.

“They haven’t rallied behind her.”

The deep voice, devoid of any emotion, chilled Gilly to her bones. Even the babe stilled in her belly.

“You really should stop doing that” Arya admonished, shaking her head.

“Doing what?” Bran chuckled, his hand reaching for his sister’s.

“Oh, so you do have a sense of humour after all” the Stark girl teased, lifting her chin.

Bran smiled, though the corners of his mouth didn’t reach her eyes, nor his teeth showed. And yet, they were just children.

_I wasn’t a child anymore when I was their age._

But still, when they spoke in the Great Hall, when they shouted commands, Gilly how much younger they all were, compared to the old crinkled lordlings Robb’s war had left behind. Or when Arya tried to see beyond the hills, her frown just as deep as those of the women who had sent their husbands to die.

At least she had Sam, and her son with her. At least she had that. At least…

She had to be happy, hadn’t she? And yet her heart beat faster with each passing moment, not sure if she should fear more the dead or whatever an elephant was, besides a drawing on a book. And Gilly had no one else besides her little family, stuck between both threats. No matter what Sam said, she had nowhere else to go.

And when she looked around the room, even though there was laughter and songs, she realised she was not the only one.

* * *

His large hand dropped to her belly, and the babe gave a strong kick, as if aware of the father’s touch.

“It’s alright, Sammy” he encouraged, a gentle smile on his face as he kissed her son’s cheek, leaning forward so the boy in his arms could touch his mother’s belly as well. “It’s your little brother or sister in there.”

Little Sam frowned, his small hand instantly curling back against his chest.

Gilly chuckled, clutching her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the cold winds ruffling their clothes.

Another moon. Another moon had passed and still no news of either Jon or Cersei.

And Bran knew something. Of course he knew something. He knew everything that happened everywhere, all at once. But he had asked everyone – especially his sisters – not to ask him anything about it. So he knew. He knew either that elephants marched on his land or his heart-brother was dead already and everything was lost.

But he would afford them those last days of blissful ignorance. And Gilly would take them.

“It’s alright, dear” she assured him, taking his hand between both of hers and laying it on her belly, her eyes following them there. “It’s your brother Sam, little one. He’s waiting for you.”

“We all are” Sam added.

Gilly sighed, her eyes finding Sam’s amidst the gentle falling snow. Her heart leapt in her chest, unlike the first time she had seen him. The southerners’ stories were all wrong. One wouldn’t look at a stranger and instantly fall in love. It wasn’t possible. Not just that. It was silly.

But with Sam… She didn’t remember when she had fallen for him. When she had laid her eyes on him and decided she hadn’t loved anybody just as much as she loved him. Theirs was not a love story for songs in great halls and fancy castles. A small girl like Sansa Stark had been would never sigh longingly while hearing the tale of Sam the Slayer and Gilly the Wildling.

But would that same small girl have dreamt with Lady Stark and her King Crow?

She saw the large wolf before she heard it, her son twisting in Sam’s arms so he could run after it, as if he was part of the pack as well. Maybe he was. Maybe they all were by now. And maybe there was a future when Sam and Gilly’s children would play with the Stark children in the snow, and they would all survive the great war and be happy.

“He’ll come back” Gilly mumbled, her arm around Sam’s waist just as quickly as his was around her shoulders, watching her boy – _their_ boy – running away behind Ghost.

Sam chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. And just for a moment Gilly truly let herself forget death was marching upon them.

“Oh, I’m not worried about Sam! Winterfell might as well be his home by now.”

She chuckled too, turning around in his arms so she could wrap her arms around his neck and stand on her tiptoes to kiss him. She always felt warmer when they kissed.

“That’s true” she whispered against his chapped lips. “But I meant Jon.”

Sam took a long breath, his eyes still closed when he turned his face away. Away to the mountains. Away towards the setting sun, though it was only just a couple of hours past noon.

The days were so short lately.

“I’m not worried about him either. He always comes back.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Samwell Tarly” she chastised, slapping his arm. “You have the same look on your face as they all do. Arya, Bran. Sansa.”

“I doubt the depths of Sansa’s longing for Jon have anything to do with my own” he jested, and even Gilly managed to laugh, no matter how vulgar the joke. “He’s my brother. I mean, I’m worried for Dickon, and Talla, and mum. But Jon _is_ my brother. And he’s our best hope.”

They had said the same about the Greyjoy, and he hadn’t made much of an impression. Let alone his sister.

“He’ll come back” Gilly repeated, as if to convince herself.

_He has to. What will become of us if he doesn’t?_

Gilly’s eyes followed her son, running down the stairs to the courtyard, ducking just in time to pass between Lady Brienne’s legs as she jumped to the side to avoid Arya’s sword. A figure stepped into her field of vision, his face turning so he too could follow either the wolf’s or Little Sam’s race between the dozens of people gathered below Gilly and Sam. There was a half-smile on his face.

Her heart clenched.

She didn’t trust him.

“He’s with us now, Gilly” Sam muttered, as if he had heard her thoughts.

“A man who pushes a small child from a tower once can do that again when it suits him.”

Sam took another long breath.

“Bran says we should be thankful for it” he said, kissing Gilly’s temple again, her son already out of their sight, maybe hidden in the kennels or the kitchens or the godswood altogether. “If it wasn’t for Jaime Lannister pushing him out of that window Joffrey Lannister might still be seating in the Iron Throne.”

“And now we have his mad mother instead, if the rumours are true” she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Over her belly, more like. “Three Eyed Raven or not that boy sounds a little daft sometimes.”

“He’s not that bad, you know? If we stand a chance against his sister it’s because of him” Sam argued, pointing at one of the white towers to their right, and the giant crossbow on top of it. Like a giant crow, awaiting death. “And you, of course. Don’t forget that no one could have done it without knowing what an elephant was. Without the brightest woman both north _and_ south of the Wall.”

Gilly laughed again, her hand quickly covering her mouth before she could draw someone else’s attention.

“We did it together, Sam. You, me, the Starks, the Lannister brothers…” she corrected, her cheeks warm with delight. She had never felt particularly bright when she was a girl. She always felt outright stupid whenever she heard Sam talk about something he had found on one of his books. But somehow she found a way to believe him when he said those sorts of things.

Sam never lied. Not to her, at least. So maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all.

“You father” she said, her hand firmly tucked in his arm as they walked. But her throat was dry, a dark shadow, dark as the last few nights, clouded her thoughts. “You father fights for the Lannisters, yes?”

Gilly risked looking at Sam, his face paler than the snow, his throat bobbing at her words.

That possibility had crossed her mind more than once. The Tarlys, drowning with Cersei’s army in the Narrow Sea, if the Northmen were lucky. Or fighting for Winterfell, putting brother against brother, if they weren’t. What would happen then? Would Randyll Tarly finally see his mistake?

She highly doubted it. That man would never take a step back, too proud to do so.

“He does” Sam finally managed, resuming their walk across the courtyard.

A heavy silence fell over them, as if the implications of that simple truth were too sour at the moment.

A wolf howled in the distance, just like the winds in her ears, twirling the snow around them.

“Even Ghost is restless” Gilly muttered, a shiver running down her spine as she tried to break the awkward silence.

_How could he not when the air reeks of death?_

She should have sent her son south. Sam’s family would have looked after him. Or they should have all stayed south. Or even gone as south as south goes.

“The dragon queen faced Cersei’s forces twice in the Reach, and I’ve had no news of them as of yet” Sam continued, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Gilly gulped, but said no word. Not yet.

“I mean, they would have told me, wouldn’t they?” Sam asked, his gentle eyes fiercely upon her as he turned to Gilly, his strong hands on her arms, forcing her to face him “Jon certainly would-“

“Maybe Jon doesn’t know” she cut sharply.

Too sharply.

Sam seemed scared. Maybe not for his father, maybe he didn’t care anymore. But for his brother. He still loved his brother.

“But Tyrion Lannister would know. Maybe he wouldn’t betray his queen, and neither would the girl from Naath.”

The girl from Naath... Another spectre, walking around Winterfell, following Tyrion's every step as she had her queen's when she was there too. Trying to see past the hills north of the castle. Gilly was yet to share a word with her, and she doubted they had anything to say to each other altogether. She hoped the girl wouldn't be another widow of war, though. There would be too many widows anyway when all this was over. Widows and orphans, if the living won.

“Bran knows. He knows everything” Gilly suggested, rolling her eyes.

It wasn’t like she hated the boy or anything. But most days he seemed… He seemed liked a creature from the stories she had heard growing up, just like dragons, savages from beyond the sea, walking corpses. Well, Jon could be considered- No. Jon had always been kind to her. Jon was definitely human, even if that strange woman had had to bring him back from the darkness.

His little brother seemed deader than him anyway.

“I would never ask that of him” Sam chewed, looking at his feet. “He might have seen his brother’s death already. He might have seen our deaths already. I would never put that burden on the boy’s shoulders as well.”

Gilly nodded, looking somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.

Men and their honour. Honour would get them all killed.

But honour had brought Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy to them. Honour had brought Jon Snow home and then sent him North. Honour had called the Starks back to Winterfell. And without any of them, and all the men and women that would follow them when time came, what remained between the south and the dead or Cersei Lannister?

She gently tugged on Sam’s chin, coaxing him to look at her. She stood on her tiptoes, her arms around his neck as she kissed him, a warmth crawling down her back even though her belly stood in her way. But she let herself smile when Sam moaned against her mouth, both of them completely ignoring everyone around. She had come to Winterfell with a small child and him. They had both tried at least not to feed any rumours, but Gilly’s belly had started to show a moon or so ago, and not kissing Sam in public would hardly be enough to shut them all up now.

Another howl, this time nearer and sharper than the first one.

And then a second, deeper. And a third, like that of no more than a pup.

The metal clanking around them stopped, and so did the footsteps on the snow and stone, and the voices of men and women and children.

Sam parted from her, clutching her hand, his back stiff, his shoulders straight as his eyes found hers, then Arya’s.

“This isn’t Ghost” he mumbled, as if he was afraid of his own words. “This isn’t _just_ Ghost, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we have at least one chapter left, though it might be two or so. Don't worry, okay? This is going somewhere, though I'm not sure when exactly that will happen. Thank you so so so much for your patience and support! You guys are the absolute best! <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!  
> It's been 2 months, I know, but oh well! Good news there's only one chapter left and the last one is almost finished by now so I do hope it will take less than 70 days to update (I hope so, I really hope so)

It was cold. Terribly cold. Colder than before, even though he had been surrounded by wights.

He had felt that sort of cold once, before being painfully ripped from it. Cold and darkness and a terrible loneliness. As if no one would notice if he was gone. As if all his life had been an enormous waste of time, his every task a tremendous failure.

This time was different, though. Not so bad. Not so harsh. Not so bitter. He could smell lemons and winter roses all around him. He could hear laughter, her sweet laughter, and Arya and Bran’s as well. And then it wasn’t so cold anymore. And it wasn’t hard or unpleasant to just let himself drift towards that wonderful dream.

It was warmer in his dream. Warmer in her embrace. Her hot skin against his cold cold lips. The distinctive scent that made him drunk when he buried his face between her thighs. Her hands, soft but demanding, tugging at his curls. Her delightful moans as the taste of her dazed him.

More than once he had wished to stay like that forever. To live between her thighs and never be forced to leave the comfort of their bed – their duties be damned! He rejoiced, realising there was a way all of that could come true after all.

Aye, this time was different. He had actually lived this time.

He could let himself rest now. He could _finally_ rest now.

She knew how to take care of them. And clearly she could take care of herself.

She didn’t need him anymore. They didn’t need him anymore.

* * *

They were too many to count. A huge pack of wolves following the biggest of them all. A huge creature, terrifying, with grey fur and big golden eyes that searched the field until they landed on the short lady with short hair.

Gilly clutched Sam’s arm, her heart drumming her ribs, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Ghost was one thing. Ghost made her feel more at ease whenever his large head touched the palm of her hand every once in a while. She always thought little Sam was safer if Ghost wasn’t too far from where her boy played. And Jon’s wolf looked as fierce as the wolf before them. But there was a quietness to him. Some sense of stealth or something like that. As if his strength came from a silent place.

That beast, on the other hand… That enormous beast.

Arya bowed her head, and so did the direwolf, quickly followed by dozens – no, maybe hundreds of smaller wolves behind, with hundreds of guards pointing their spears at them.

_Where is Sam? That darn boy always hiding from everyone!_

Her heart thudded in her chest, even faster as the queen raised her gloved hand, her men swiftly obeying her and lowering their weapons. A cold wind rose then, flapping their cloaks, freezing Gilly’s ears.

And now nothing stood between them and those beasts.

“It’s alright” Arya assured, stretching her hand towards the large head as she cast a look over her shoulder to the dozens of men and women gathered behind her. Gilly could almost hear their bones shaking in fear. “She won’t hurt anyone. Well, anyone besides Joffrey, that is.”

Sansa gave a nervous laugh, but her shoulders remained tense.

They were too many. Too many. Their jaws strong enough to tear anyone’s soft flesh apart. Even bone.

_Where is Sam?_

“She needed to muster them first” Bran said, his hands firmly clasped on his lap, his stance much more relaxed than that of everyone around.

Who?

“I understand now” Arya chewed, and to Gilly’s surprise the direwolf bumped her head against Arya’s hand, closing her eyes as if she was finally at peace.

_Nymeria. Her wolf his back._

Gilly allowed herself to breath then. Ghost was loyal to Jon. Now Sansa too. That wolf would be loyal to her master.

No. Not master. Wolves have no masters. They belong to no one. Their only master is the North itself.

“Powerful allies” Sam muttered, his hand gently stroking Gilly’s on his arm.

She shook her head, the pieces struggling to fit in her head.

_Powerful allies…_

“Are we- I mean, I had expected-“ Gilly whispered, her throat dry and colder than the tallest mountains from home.

She had expected something else, for sure. A great army of men in iron coats, maybe. Another set of foreign warriors, maybe. But definitely not… Not…

Not this.

“And now what? Will Arya ride the largest one into battle or something?” Gilly finally concluded almost against Sam’s ear.

“Hush” he urged her, clutching her hand tighter, as if that would sooth her. “It’s much more complex than that. They have a… They have a connection, if you will. I mean, you’ve seen Jon and Ghost.”

Gilly shook her head. The white queen had two dragons, but Gilly would have taken a thousand warriors from the Free Folk instead of those if she could. A thousand Tormunds, maybe. Dragons and wolves were too unpredictable. People, on the other hand…

No, she was wrong about that. People were even worse than beasts. Just look at the likes of them in that courtyard. The Greyjoy man, who had betrayed his own brother. The older Lannister, betraying his sister, queen – and lover, if the rumours were true. The younger one, killing his own father and leaving his own kin behind to pledge his allegiance to another queen. Not even Sam or her were innocent, living as man and wife when he was a maester, passing another man’s child – the result of a monstrous thing by refined southern patterns – as their own.

No one was innocent. And yet somehow they thought they deserved to win this war.

Maybe the dead were the innocent ones, and they were all wrong. Maybe the dead were just trying to make the world a better place by wiping away so many traitors and liars from it.

But her hand rested on her belly once again and she realised she didn’t care if they deserved to live or not.

They wanted to.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

“That’s absurd!” Sansa shouted, her fists slamming the table as she stood up. “You cannot go. Not both of you, at least.”

Asha Greyjoy stood up slowly – or as quickly as her bad leg would allow her – and lifted her chin, her shoulders tense, a hand on the arm of her chair to help support her weight and the other on her hip.

She was terrifying. They had tried to break her, just like they had tried to break her brother. But still, there she was, proud.

What is dead may never die, the Greyjoys said sometimes, smiling knowingly at each other.

“I’m sorry, your grace, but that’s not up to you to decide” Asha declared, her dark eyes strangely calm, her raspy voice loud and clear.

“I’m well aware of it, your grace” Sansa said, sitting back down and stretching a hand towards the other woman, urging her to do the same.

Still, Asha Greyjoy stood.

From the corner of her eyes, Gilly saw Tyrion Lannister rolling his own while his older brother huffed.

“But don’t you think it’s reckless, your grace? Sending the both of you to command the Iron Fleet? Who’ll inherit your islands then, if something happens?” Sansa tried again. “Will we leave them to Cersei Lannister as well, just like the rest of Westeros?”

“Queen Sansa is right” Tyrion tried to weight in, between sips of his cup. The man seemed to be drinking even more lately. War took its toll on everybody, after all, no matter how much the imp tried to pass the idea that he didn’t care. “Surely killing your uncle would be very satisfying, but maybe, as queen, it is your duty to ensure you leave at least an heir to the Iron Islands?”

_Another queen. So many queens this days. So many queens and only a throne made of swords._

Or made of bones, if they didn’t reach a decision already.

It was Asha’s turn to roll her eyes.

“My brother is my heir. He can stay.”

“I won’t” Theon mumbled, his eyes on his hands, twisting the cords of his jerkin. “I need to set things right with him too.”

Gilly considered rolling her eyes as well, but was able to suppress that urge. All that talking of revenge and honour and old debts… They all talked too much. As if they enjoyed talking around tables with maps and lists more than actually doing something.

“This conversation is going nowhere” Jaime Lannister scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why is he here again?” Arya growled, her hand pointing at the Kingslayer but her eyes on her sister.

And this time Gilly had to cover her mouth to muffle a nervous giggle, making some sound between a snort and a snore instead, attracting everyone’s attention for a minute. Even Brienne felt the need to slap her back a couple of times, thinking she had choked.

There was a mocking smile on the younger Lannister brother now, and Gilly blushed.

“I’m here, my lady” he explained, in a fitting mocking tone “because if I wasn’t you would all be dead by now. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Arya stood up like something had pinched her arse, Bran’s hand just as swiftly around her wrist, Brienne’s on her shoulder, Sansa’s eyes piercing her.

“Just like I shall never forget what you did to-“

“Enough!”

The room fell silence, the deep rough voice echoing through the stones, still ringing in Gilly’s ears. For a moment all she could hear was the wind wheezing between the stones of the castle and her heartbeat. Theon Greyjoy’s cheeks were pink, his breath coming out in short pants, his fists opening and closing at his sides.

“We’re wasting time” he said, in a calmer tone, his eyes on Sansa, as if she would be the easiest person to convince in the room. Maybe she was. “Hundreds of men and women went north to try to win us some time and we’re wasting it. I’m going and that’s final. I can’t be Asha’s heir. What’s an heir good for if he can’t produce any more of those?”

Sansa reached for his arm for a moment, letting her hand fall before she did. A sadness filled the air. A sense of doom. That everything had changed forever, like they had been tugged away by a great invisible hand from the road someone had laid out for them when they were children.

_I never had a path laid out for me._

And yet she had never expected to be there. She had never expected _this_ to be her life. To have a brave loving man by her side, a small happy family – as happy as they could be, at least, given the circumstances. To have friends. To learn her letters and her sums.

For a brief moment Gilly realised how lucky she was. She had chosen her own road, in a way, whereas most of those around her hadn’t been so fortunate. And then a sting of pain, because she was unimportant, in grand scheme of things. She had always been invisible, to everyone, queens and kings and lords and ladies alike. To them she was nothing. She still was nothing. She could die tomorrow and the great wheel of the world would keep on spinning like nothing had happened. The Starks could still win this war. The White Queen could still conquer her throne. The Mad Queen could still kill them all. The dead could be faster than any of them.

If she died nothing would change. And that nothing gave her freedom.

The Starks, and the Greyjoys, and the Lannisters. Even the Targaryen queen. They were just pawns, bounded by duty.

Or greed.

* * *

She would never get used to so many wolves lurking around the castle. It made her feel like she had been thrown into one of those scary tales her older sisters used to whisper by the fire on dark nights when the winds howled through the creeks in Craster’s ceiling.

At night Gilly heard them howling to the silver moon in the sky, and she covered her ears with the pillow to try to get some sleep, Sam’s strong arms quickly encircling her and letting her bury her nose under his chin. Most nights that was enough to calm her. Some she thought that maybe she would have preferred the two dragons flying over their heads. At least they were quieter than those beasts.

“We should go south” she whispered, and the babe in her belly kicked her ribs, making her gasp.

Her back ached, most days, and her stomach felt as if it was always full. She remembered the same feeling with her first babe, wishing with all her might that it would be over soon and fearing the day she would have to push the creature out of her womb. Southern men might die in war, their glory forever remember in tales and songs. But southern women, just like those north of the Wall, bled to death with their babes between her legs, or were killed by the fever, or lost their minds and took their own lives after the babe was born. And they were soon forgotten too, remembered only by their children, and maybe – if they were really lucky – by their children’s children.

She had heard and read about Rickard Stark, and Brandon Stark, and Eddard Stark. She even knew of Lyanna Stark, but not because there were chronicles about her. Rhaegar Targaryen had thorn the Seven Kingdoms apart because of her, after all. But what about Lyarra Stark? What had become of her? Had she been a good lady? Had she kept record of grain stocks like her eldest granddaughter? Had she been a fierce fighter like the younger one? Had she enjoyed brooding all the time, like Jon Snow? Or had she preferred speaking in riddles, like Bran?

No one would ever know. Every one that had known her was dead already.

Sam caressed her belly, and Gilly took a long breath, her hand over his. She wouldn’t mind being just an afterthought in the tales they told about this war if she could have this.

There was an awful lot of papers stretched out in front of them. An infinity of numbers and letters. Sacs of grain. Barrels of beer. Logs still in store. Ounces of iron. Men and women and their respective towns. Those who could fight. Those who needed shelter.

Queen Sansa had gone to bed a while ago, her eyes red and watery but with no tears left to cry. When Sam had left the two of them alone Gilly had covered Sansa’s hand with hers and the other woman had mumbled something about sending yet another one to war when she remained safe at home.

But they both knew home wasn’t safe either. They were trapped inside the walls of the castle. If either their enemies in the east or their enemies in the north or their enemies in the south won then they were lost. Nothing but old stone stood between them and death.

“You should” Sam corrected, a small smile in his gentle face before recovering his quill and resuming his writing. His fingers were black with ink already, but that hadn’t stopped him. “I have to stay.”

“Then _we_ will stay.” Another howl, sending shivers down her spine.

“I thought you didn’t mind Ghost” Sam jested, leaving his quill again.

He leaned towards her, his thigh brushing against hers as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was enough to melt some of the ice in her throat.

“I don’t mind Ghost. But those out there have no name and answer to no master.”

He took a long breath, but chose to remain silent. And she knew he knew she was right.

“I’ll send a raven to my father, if that would make you feel safer” Sam whispered, his breath fanning against her lips. “I could ask for his forgiveness-”

“No.”

The word sounded sharper than she had intended.

Sam sent her a puzzled look.

She stroked his arm, and he released a broken sigh.

“You won’t bend to his will, Samwell Tarly, do you hear me?” Gilly all but scolded, both her hands clutching his as if she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat. He had been, once. He still was. But she had learned how to swim. And sometimes she kept him afloat as well.

And that thought – that simple thought – was enough to warm her heart. He was hers and she was his and it didn’t matter what anybody else said. They were stronger together. They were stronger when they swam towards the same direction.

Gilly gently cupped his cheeks, stroking his sparse beard and loosing herself in his eyes. Her lips brushed against his, Sam’s arm quick to encircle her waist and pulling her to his lap with a low groan.

“I love you, Sam” she whispered against his mouth between kisses, her fingers tangling in his hair, a familiar heat pooling between her thighs. “We will survive this. I know we will.”

“I love you. And I hope you’re right about this one too.” Sam chuckled, a half-smile on his lips as his free hand travelled up her calve, dragging the hem of her dress along with it. “You’re always right about everything.”

Gilly allowed herself to laugh a bit, though Sam’s fingers brushing against her smallclothes were a little distracting. She didn’t enjoy the gloomy thoughts filling her mind lately one bit. She liked it better when she could almost hear in her own voice how her eyes shone when she spoke about the stories of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike on the old dusty books of Winterfell. She liked it better when she didn’t doubt the sun would rise up in the morning no matter how dark the night had been. She liked it better when she could picture a small garden filled with flowers and both her children running around, safe and sound, as Sam read one of his books under a young tree with bright green leaves.

“Together” she all but panted as he eased a finger inside of her, his hot breath against her ear and sending shivers down her spine. “We will survive this together.”

* * *

 

Sansa stood up and put her hands behind her back, her ever growing belly looking just as heavy as Gilly’s. The queen released a long sigh, looking over the tall stone walls of the castle to the great white plain south of them. It was a rare sunny day, the snow twinkling under its rays as she walked around the room to stretch her legs. A pair of tiny white wool socks – almost as white as the snow itself – laid on her sewing basket amidst the pieces of shirts she had been knitting since Jon Snow had left.

Gilly had watched Sansa knit those, the tears finally back in her long dried eyes, one falling with each twist of her needles. She had had no which to make clothes for a small babe, but such an activity was expected of a pregnant Sansa Stark, and so as the moons kept on turning with no news of her husband or Theon Greyjoy – in the end his sister had stayed and he had carried the task of avenging his family name and his own – the Red Queen had left the shirts for little socks and little blankets.

Cersei’s army had been marching North with each passing day, the dead marching south, and still no news. Gilly’s feet grew more and more swollen with each day, the pain on her back and her lower belly as constant as her heartbeat now, and still no news. The wolves had hunted night after night in the woods named after them and still no news.

The floor rumbled softly under their feet, and the two women exchanged glances, a silent agreement to remain calm so as not to disturb those around them. A woman close to the door clutched a wool ball and her needles against her chest, her eyes almost popping out from her face. Another, next to the hearth, run to the window with a surprise gasp, quickly followed by two others Gilly had barely noticed all afternoon.

And the horns and bells crying mercilessly, piercing Gilly’s ears, a heartbeat before a panting Arya Stark burst through the door, her hands against her chest as she tried to recover her breath, her slender sword in her hand and ready for the fight.

Gilly’s eyes went from Arya to the window.

She saw them then. Still barely in the horizon, but still she saw them. Large creatures, covered by a red cloud, slowly and terrifyingly closer and closer to the walls. And hundreds... No. Maybe thousands. Thousands. Gilly was never too good at guessing numbers, but hundreds were too few.

She swallowed thickly, her head working ten times as fast as it usually did.

Her son was right there, playing with a small girl in a corner of the room, unware of the terror around him. Her hand went to her belly. Her other child was there.

_Sam. Where is Sam?_

She run to the door like a mad woman, determined to find her husband before those creatures did.

A deep howl rumbled through the stones, followed by another just as powerful. And then hundreds more, sharper than the first ones. And the sound of a hundred pairs of metal boots on the ground, and a hundred steel swords being unsheathed.

“They’re here!” Arya shouted, her hair in a disarray, her eyes just as wild as she grabbed Gilly’s arm. “We have to go.”

“Theon lost” Sansa mumbled, falling back on her little stool, her eyes in her empty hands, her long red hair covering her face as her shoulders shook.

_Sam. Sam!_

Sam had been outside, collecting provisions from the small garden for his stock of unguents and infusions.

Sam might still be outside. Outside wasn’t the safest place now. Nowhere was safe now.

“Theon lost” Sansa repeated, her hands on her forehead now. “He lost. Jon’s gone and Theon lost.”

“Sansa!” a tall figure right at the edge of Gilly’s vision shouted.

Jaime Lannister crossed the room in a handful of long strides, not before the lady knight tried to catch his arm and prevent him from doing so. He grabbed Sansa’s shoulders and for a moment Gilly was aware of who the queen really was.

Just a girl, forced to act like a grown up. A young girl, too young for the weight on her shoulders. They were all too young, after all.

“Jaime!” Brienne scolded, pushing the Kingslayer aside, and putting her body between him and her queen.

“What? There’s no time for this now, Brienne!” Jaime Lannister waved his golden hand in the air, and Gilly noticed his sword had already been unsheathed. He was prepared to fight against his own kin.

_Kingslayer. Kinslayer._

Gilly covered her mouth to stifle a nervous giggle. But she heard screams and cries around her. This was no time for laughter.

“I made a vow. And so have you. We need to get them out of here” he argued, a deep crinkle between his bright green eyes.

Brienne gave a stern nod, and this time her hand gently found Sansa’s.

But still, the queen’s eyes remained empty, looking at some invisible spot on the floor.

And drums, and horns, and screams and flashes of woollen dresses and woollen cloaks passing before Gilly’s eyes as those in the room fled for their lives or in search for their loved ones.

_Sam. Where is Sam?_

She pulled her son’s arm and sat him on her hip, kissing his golden hair. She had been brave enough once, for the both of them. She could be brave again for three as well. She could be brave and keep them all safe.

“Sansa!” Arya shouted, grabbing her sister’s arm as she tried to pull her from her stupor.

“He lost” Sansa mumbled again, her hands shaking, her mouth left open in a silent cry.

“Lady Sansa, please.”

Gilly turned around, her attention caught by the Imp’s calm plea. Sansa looked at him – the man who had once been her husband, though not really – as if she couldn’t quite see him.

“Please, my lady” he called again, wobbling across the room but making no attempt at touching her.

_Sam. We’re losing time. Southern queens are so silly. They lose their minds when they should lead their people._

No. She was being cruel. Too cruel. It was too heavy a weight to carry.

“Jon is out there fighting against the end of the world. Your men and women are out there fighting for the North and their lives” Tyrion Lannister said, his tone as low as if he was talking to a scared little rabbit and not a wolf. “You have served them brilliantly ever since you were made Lady of Winterfell. They need you to lead them now.”

“Family. Duty. Honour.” Sansa mumbled.

“Yes, and winter is here, just like father always warned us” Arya cut sharply, this time effectively waking her sister from her slumber. Sansa shook her head and clutched her sister’s fingers as if they were her salvation. “Good, let’s go! I know a way.”

_Sam…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think?   
> As usual, thank you so much for still being here! That people are still reading this and leaving comments and kudos even though there hasn't been an update in a long time is amazing! Love you all <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! So so so so sorry, really! I was trying to wrap this up and then the last chapter kept on growing and growing so I decided to split it in two and post what's already at least acceptable. Hope you like it!

Her lips were just the same shade as her eyes, a thin red line dripping slowly from them down to her fur covered neck. Her hand, clutching his so tightly at first, was slowly losing its strength. And even though all around he should have been hearing cries of despair, horrible shrieks, fire and ice crackling, he could hear nothing but her faint breathing.

Two dragons danced in the air, one almost as white as the snow and other black as night. The black one had stopped mid-air and launched himself to the ground, as if possessed by some strange force, his long terrifying teeth searching his brother’s throat.

She had fell from the beast's back then, though not from very high – not enough to hurt her, at least. But she had been foolish enough to stand in between her _children_ and try to stop them from fighting anymore. And now the Night King’s spear was lodged somewhere between her guts all the way up to her chest and piercing through her back.

A hero’s death.

“Jon” she wheezed, and he could hear something bubbling in her throat as well.

He tightened both her hands between his, and damned himself for not being able to love her like she had loved him. For she had loved him, in her own twisted way. In the twisted way her brother might have shown her. In the only way she had been taught.

But she had loved him.

And he damned himself for not loving her at least like one should love ones kin.

She tried to speak again, but a terrible cough interrupted her words.

“Hush” Jon urged, brushing her sticky silver hair from her forehead “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be alright. We won.”

Longclaw had pierced the undead king on his back, and the green dragon had drowned him in his flames, and somehow the Night King had disappeared. And so had the third dragon. Gone, never to be seen again. Some said it had flown north, north, north... Some it had burst into flames after his mother's death. Jon decided no one would ever really know.

She tightened her grip on Jon’s hand, as if some life had come back to her then.

“We did, didn’t we?” she mumbled, a weak smile on her face.

But Jon felt sad. Terrible sad.

“I’m so…” Her voice failed her, and Jon cradled the back of her head, straightening her neck as if that would help her speak. She tried to swallow, her brow furrowed, but her fingers reached for his cheek, barely touching him. “I’m so sorry. I was…”

“Hush, Dany, hush” he tried, kissing her forehead. It wasn’t forced this time. All those moons riding beside her had given him time to forgive some of her sins. Not all. Definitely not all. But he had sins of his own, and not many he regretted. Sometimes it took some lying and cheating to reach a better goal for everyone. A boy might not know that simple truth. A man knew.

“I’m the last of my line, and I almost… I almost ruined…”

“You ruined nothing” he cut. It was a lie. She had ruined some things. Many had died because of her.

_And because of me. Neither of us is innocent in this._

“They’ll sing songs about you” he tried to please her.

“Daenerys Stormborn, the last Targaryen” she whispered, and her eyes weren’t focused anymore. “You’re not the last Stark, though. I hope they’re well.”

For some reason Jon’s eyes prickled.

She should have died in someone else’s arms. Someone that truly loved her. But Jon couldn’t remember when he had last seen Ser Jorah.

A terrible shriek followed by two loud thuds, like mountains falling down, interrupted his thoughts.

A wave of snow crawled to them, almost covering Daenerys’s body, and Jon pulled his cloak to his eyes.

The last two dragons were gone, a cream jaw around a black throat and a black jaw around a cream throat.

A strangely warm breeze ruffled his hair.

It was over.

* * *

The road to home was longer than he recalled, his fast beating heart reminding him he was very much alive. But there had been no news in a while now. No answer to the dozens of ravens he had sent at least twice every fortnight. And he knew he should feel lucky – blessed even – that they had done the impossible after all and saved their people after all.

Yet, it meant nothing to him. Nothing, until he saw her face again. _Their_ faces again. It meant nothing, if he didn’t have a home to return to. They were his home. He needed her arms around him, and to bury his face in her neck. He needed Arya’s warm hugs and Bran’s gentle smile. He needed a good slap in the back from Sam.

_Sam…_

He needed to tell Sam.

Jon shook his head, his heart hammering his ribs.

What if they weren’t there anymore?

He had been half dead at some point during the fight, a pair of blue eyes piercing right through him and somehow he had found in himself the strength to keep on fighting.

But at night, he couldn’t picture them anymore. His family. All he saw was Daenerys’s white eyes, her ice cold hand clutching his desperately as her breath grew shallower with each beat of her heart.

War had its risks, of course. He knew there was a price to pay. He had been more than ready to pay that price.

But Jon had never expected he would be the one to come back alive to see the dark towers in the distance – though he was still trying to adjust to the fact that half his vision was now gone and he couldn’t quite guess how far the castle still was just by looking at it.

This was not the Winterfell he had left, though. This was not home. _His_ home.

“Jon!” he heard Ser Davos behind him, and then the echo on Tormund’s voice. But it was too late. He had already spurred his horse, leaving the remnants of their army behind.

_Please. Please! Please…_

Not them. Not them.

Would the gods be so cruel? Would they allow him to return from the dead and survive a suicidal war just to take everything he loved from him?

No. That wasn’t possible.

_It is. You know it is. Father, Robb, Rickon, uncle Benjen. The gods are cruel._

There were no gods! He believed in no gods. He _needed_ no gods. He only needed his family. Nothing more.

Nothing less.

It was like being thrown back in time. He had seen smoke rising from the ruins of the old towers once. They had rebuilt those towers. Together. With their people. They had made Winterfell their home again.

And now everything was gone, as if that Bolton scum still soiled those sacred grounds.

He wobbled past the gate, having dismounted at some point, some strange force taking control of his body. Jon’s shoulder hit the again ruined wall, the dark spot at his left yet to become a part of him. But he wouldn’t need that eye anymore. Or the one that was left, for the matter. His family was his eyes. And his lungs. His head too.

_My heart. They are my heart. And the blood that runs in my veins and keeps me alive._

There was white smoke rising from the snow, somehow. And the terrible stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils as muffled hurried steps sounded behind him.

But he didn’t care. Everything was gone. Last time he had been in this courtyard he had seen carts filled with food, large tables stocked with weapons and pieces of armour, men and women hurrying about their lives, young boys and girls trying hard not to miss the marks on the straw targets he and Arya had put together, just like when they were children.

And the godswood… Sansa had never looked more beautiful, somehow. And he had never loved her more than on the day her clever mind had found a way for them to be together. Even if it was only for a few stolen moments.

Now only scorched stumps could be seen above the wall. And everything was gone.

His cheeks were wet when his knees finally gave under his weight, but the cold snow under them was somehow welcome.

He had been stolen again. Betrayed. He should have died. Not them. They did not deserve to die. Jon should have been dead for many moons now. But he had tried to live. And he had tried to give everyone some life to live too.

Daenerys had yearned for glory, but there was no glory in this victory for him. It would have been glorious to see Sansa, Arya, Bran and Sam waiting for him there, instead of half burnt walls and ruins. Instead of Stark banners ripped in half and rolling in the snow again.

And burnt bodies. Burnt bodies everywhere, as if one of Daenerys’s dragons had flown over Winterfell and burnt it to the ground.

It was like reliving his worst nightmare. But a thousand times worst, without her by his side, holding his hand, urging him forward.

Jon pressed his hand against his chest, realising he couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard he pushed the air into his mouth through his dry lips it wasn’t enough.

“Jon” he heard a rough voice behind him, a strong arm over his shoulder as he buried his nose on the leather and wept like a child, feeling his consciousness slowly leaving him. “Breathe, son. Breathe. Slowly. That’s it, my boy. Slowly through your nose, then slowly from your mouth. There you go.”

He welcome the knight's presence. Jon had been too long without a father. Ned Stark had been his father. A good father to him. After leaving for the Wall he had felt so lost without him. When they had made him king it had been even worst, even though Sansa and him were in it together. But he would never be able to express how grateful he was to have Ser Davos too.

“I failed them, Ser Davos” he mumbled, not caring if he was behaving like a little boy and covering the knight’s jerkin in his snot and dribble. He would gladly be a boy again – the bastard boy Lady Catelyn hated so much – if that would bring them all back.

“You failed no one, son” Ser Davos assured him, holding him tight, the cold snow under them surely freezing the knight’s knees as well. “You saved your people. But there are other terrible forces in this world, and you can’t possibly make yourself responsible for all of them.”

He had saved his people. But he hadn’t saved _them_. He hadn’t been there for his family. How good was a world without them, after all?

There was a thump, and then a terrible cry. And then many joined.

Jon wasn’t the one that had lost his family there.

“They need me” he whispered, his hand on Ser Davos’s shoulder, the other smashing his tears with determination.

He was king. He had a duty to his people still.

Was he king still? And king of what? House Targaryen was gone, and no one would ever know he was the last heir of that broken line. His queen was gone too, under the ashes of their home.

_Home…_

Another sob shook his body. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough. She was. She had always been. Strong enough to wipe her tears in private and then raise her chin to face her people. She knew how to do this. She had returned home after her lord father, her lady mother and two of her beloved brothers had been killed. And she made it feel like home nevertheless, without so much as a moment of weakness.

But they were all gone.

He was alone.

He was never too good on his own. He had made a terrible mess each time he was on his own.

_The lone wolf dies. And so does the pack._

Jon rose up with Ser Davos’s help, his hand on the knight’s shoulder, and took a long breath. A strange warm breeze caressed his face and for a brief moment he could smell lemons and winter roses once more. And leather and steel. And old parchment. There were new ghosts at Winterfell. New ghosts that would always look after him, no matter what. He knew that. Deep in his heart he knew that. When he almost crossed to the other side during the battle against the dead he had finally realised it. He had been loved. Dearly loved by them. He didn’t care if he hadn’t had a mother’s or a father’s love. He had had theirs. That had been enough.

No one had loved Daenerys Targaryen. No one had mourned her. Not really.

“Come on, lad!” Tormund urged, slapping his back. Even he had survived. The Wall had melted and the dead had fought him and he had survived. And Jon hated him a bit for it. Why had he survived when his family hadn’t? So safe behind the strong walls of Winterfell… “You’re still king. Do what whatever your kings do.”

“King of ashes” Jon muttered.

He heard a wolf howling in the distance.

He cursed the wolves too. He cursed Ghost above all, hating him for not protecting his family like Jon had told him to do.

Another, closer this time. And then a dozen of them. Maybe a thousand, until no human cries could be heard anymore. As if they too were mourning the dead. The death of their home.

He saw the small ones first, crawling from the cracks in the stone, the remnants of doors and windows, snow and ashes crushing softly under their paws.

From the main door, like the creature owned the place. As if it was the true lord or lady of the castle. A large beast, maybe even bigger than Ghost, big as mountains, with grey fur and fearsome golden eyes.

“What in the seven hells…?” Ser Davos mumbled, letting his chin fall.

“What’s that?” someone screamed, but no one was brave enough to take a closer look.

There was a strange bundle – a large one – dangling from the creature’s snout. Half burned, almost covered in grey. But there was a dash of gold, peeking from the bundle. A golden hand, against the ashes.

The direwolf got closer, close enough for Jon to feel its breath on his face. Close enough so Jon could smell him. And it smelt of smoke and ashes, that was certain. But it smelt of snow and steel. And it bowed. _Bowed_ its large head, throwing the bundle at Jon’s feet.

Jon heard it. In his heart, or in his mind. Or he knew it, then, for some strange reason.

_He’s alive._

“This man is still alive! The Kingslayer is alive!”

* * *

He kicked the stump of what had once been an elegant chair first, tears clouding his vision. She used to knit on that chair by the fire. He used to cover her in his cloak when she fell asleep, too stubborn to go to bed and preferring to keep him company instead.

He couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t rebuild their home again. Not without them. Not without her.

There had been a pretty dream in his silly head. A dream where Theon would have sunk Cersei’s army before it arrived on the shore, and his brother and his sister and his wife and their new-born child would be waiting for him at home. Sansa would run to his arms, propriety be damned, and he would kiss her numb in front of everyone. Arya would hug him tight and tell him how happy she was to see his ugly face again. Bran would smile, at last.

That dream had been shattered. All because he had left them.

_I will protect you, I promise._

_No one can protect anyone._

She had been right.

And he hated her for it as well. Why couldn’t she be wrong, just this once? He would have given anything for her to be wrong.

_Promise me, Jon._

“I kept my promise, Sansa” he mumbled, taking another sip of that dreadful fermented goat’s milk Tormund had given him, this time punching the table where she used to sit in front of all her charts and lists. Seven hells, she loved her charts and lists! She love to have everything figured out and planned out, and he loved her for it. “Aye, I kept it. But what about you? Uh? Did you keep the promise you made me? Did you?”

He lost his balance then, tripping on his own feet and ending up with his face on the half scorched floor.

“Jon!” he heard someone shout, but it sounded muffled. As if from another world. Two heavy hands helped him up, propping him against the wall. Someone took his drink away from him. “Easy, son. Easy.”

“You give that to me!” he roared, trying to snatch the goatskin from Ser Davos’s hands. But it was worthless. Jon was too drunk and the knight was too sober.

“I won’t, my boy” the Onion Knight said, in his usual firm tone. “You need to listen.”

“I don’t want to. Give me that hellish shit back” Jon whined, his hands trying to catch it again, but failing by a couple of inches. He was too drunk already. And he was an eye shorter than the knight. It wasn't a fair fight. “I want to forget. I want to forget about everything. I want to forget that I failed.”

“I doubt winning the war against the dead could qualify as a failure.”

Jon took a long breath, and then a terrible wail, filled with all his rage and sadness, burst from his throat.

The knight encircled him in his arms, rocking him back and forth as if he was a small child.

“I should have died, Ser Davos. I should have died and they should have lived.”

“Listen to me, Jon!” Ser Davos yelled, clutching his shoulders and giving him a firm shake. “The Kingslayer woke up. They’re not dead.”

Jon blinked, his heart jumping in his chest.

“Is this some cruel joke? No, he’s just lying, of course they’re dead.”

He wouldn’t hope. He wouldn’t hope like a foolish boy.

But it was too late. He needed to hold on to something.

“Maybe he is. Or maybe he’s not and they’re all at Dorne by now.”

* * *

His legs swallowed two steps at a time, his chest as if it was about to burst as the smell of winter roses and lemons filled his nostrils. And as a terrible cry ripped his ears he smelled the blood too.

It was happening again, and it was all his fault. He had killed his mother, and now he would kill her as well. If he loved her, if he had truly loved her so many moons ago – too many – instead of being a selfish lust-filled boy, he would have never came near her. And he wouldn’t be cursing himself now, for ever putting his seed in her belly.  His Targaryen blood was cursed. Theirs was a line that deserved to be extinct. Daenerys had died, he was the last one. And it should have remained so.

But no, he had been foolish. He had been foolish enough to think he deserved more.

Another broken cry, and this time her name crossed his lips in a rough scream, for his ragged breath allowed nothing more. How many steps left yet, now that his nose had picked only the sharp metal smell of blood and completely ignored everything else?

The screams stopped.

He had lost her. He had been too late and he had lost her. He had found her only to lose her all over again. How terrible were the gods after all?

He burst through the door, Lady Brienne unable to stop him, tears clouding his vision.

He had killed her. He had saved them all only to lose her in the end.

Blurred figures surrounded what he supposed was a bed, and there was a splash of blue by the lightest part of the room. Maybe a window, overlooking the mountains still covered in snow. And voices, many voices he couldn’t quite discern from one another.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, more gentle than chastising, really.

“Jon” a sweet voice mumbled, though not from behind him, and then sharp cries pierced his ears, and he blinked.

He was certain there were many more in that room. He saw a mop of brown hair in the corner of his eye and decided it might belong to his little sister. But his eyes landed on the small creature first, slightly purple and screaming for its life as it landed on a pair of gentle pale arms – a mother’s arms – a curtain of red hair almost covering its little head as the full lips he knew so well pressed against the babe’s forehead.

He saw them all then, in her arms.

The old gods. The new. Father, mother, smith, maiden, crone, stranger. The warrior.

He saw them all in Sansa’s arms. And decided he needed nothing more.

“Jon” she called again, outstretching her free hand to him.

And he woke from his daze. There was a room full of people. And he was king and she was queen. The war was over. Cersei was dead. Daenerys was dead too, like her dragons. She had died a saviour, a hero for her people to sing songs about and tell heroic tales through the ages. Daenerys Targaryen, Slayer of Winter, Bringer of Spring, the Last Dragon.

The creature in his wife’s arms cried again, asking for her attention.

_Wife. She’s my wife. And we can live in peace now. I can sleep in her bed without worrying about the dead killing us in the morrow._

His head spun as he walked towards her, still trying to adjust to the fact that half of his field of vision was now gone. But an eye – a clear eye – was enough to see her. That was all that mattered. He would have gladly lost both if they had assured him he would be with her again.

She was smiling at him, her red hair pulled over one shoulder, over the grey pelt of his cloak. His cloak still, after all this time. Even if her legs were covered in blood, and her forehead was sticky with sweat.

His cloak. His wife.

His.

He stopped, afraid that should he step any closer they would dissolve in the air. Afraid that he was still on his tent on the ruins of Castle Black, having fever dreams.

“My queen” he uttered, his voice breaking between words as he bowed his head slightly.

“My king.” She nodded too, though awkwardly, with the weight in her arms, her eyes brimming with tears.

All be damned, he needed to know! He needed to know if she was real. If all of this was true. If finally, for once in his sad excuse of a lifetime, he would get some rest from all the fighting. So he run to her, almost crushing her against the pillows on her back, and she hooked and arm around his neck as he planted kisses all over her face, his arms around her back to squeeze her tight against him, her name on his lips an endless litany. A desperate prayer that they would be finally left alone.

_Let us die in peace. Let us raise our children together. Hold the wars back until our grandchildren’s grandchildren are old and grey. Please, let us die in peace._

And then the babe cried, smashed between their bodies.

Sansa parted from him, and Jon saw the tuft of black curls peeking from under the pelts, tiny fat hands freeing from them to tug at Sansa’s hair.

“Hush, little one” Sansa mumbled, kissing the babe’s forehead.

Jon’s heart beat wildly in his chest as a desperate hope bloomed in his heart.

It couldn’t be. They had had so little time… It wasn’t possible.

“Hush, it’s alright. Your father’s back, little one, hush.”

Her voice. Her beautiful voice. He had heard her, amongst the battle cries and the clashing swords.

_Promise me, Jon. Come back to me. Come back home. Promise me, Jon._

And the smell of lemons and winter roses, amongst the blood and the filth.

“A babe…” he babbled, and then she was putting the furs in his arms before he could say anything more, his muscles stiff, his breathing ragged. “I’m going to hurt the babe, Sansa. I don’t know what to do.”

But his eyes – his only eye was mesmerised by the small creature with black curls and a pretty perky nose and a perfect pink mouth. Like in a dream, Jon touched each small finger. One, two, three, four, five in each hand, and as he counted the last one they closed around his much larger finger and sucked on it, pulling a chuckle from his throat as a tear fell down his cheek.

“A perfect, healthy babe…”

“Your babe, Jon” she whispered, and though his eye never left the child his lips were already against Sansa’s clammy forehead. And yet she never looked more beautiful in all her life.

He would never be able to thank her enough for this enormous gift. He could never… He didn’t deserve it. A man like him didn’t deserve such gifts.

But Jon recalled everything he had gone through. Treason, loneliness, death and darkness and filth. And he decided he deserved this and more. _They_ deserved this and more. They all deserved some happiness for a change.

“Our babe, Sansa. Ours” he corrected, cradling the small creature in his arm, the other surrounding his wife’s shoulders. “You kept your promise.”

She nestled against his side, sighing softly as her hand rested on his stomach. Somehow, everyone was gone. It was just the three of them. And they were the whole world.

“And so did you” Sansa mumbled, stroking the babes head. “I felt sorry for her. In the end.”

Jon held her tighter, kissing her temple. He understood. For some twisted reason he understood. It had been cruel – though not too cruel – that her own brother, blood of her blood and bone of her bone, had ended her life. It had sounded like something out of a nightmare, Cersei burning Winterfell down with wildfire, wolves crawling from beneath the flames to chew at what Theon had left of her army. And then her brother, curling his hands around her slender throat.

“I felt sorry for her too” Jon mumbled, and the way Sansa clutched his hand made him realise she knew he wasn’t talking about Cersei anymore. “It’s hard to die unloved and unmourned.”

* * *

Sam and Gilly had a new-born babe too. A boy with light brown hair and rosy cheeks. He reminded Jon of little Sam, but there was something of his best friend in there too. Sansa said Gilly’s firstborn seldom left his little brother’s crib, too weary of anyone who dared approach. Jon was starting to think little Sam wasn’t the only one, judging by how Gilly had snatched the babe from his crib before Jon could brush the fine hairs on his forehead.

“We only stayed because of the babe, Jon” Sam muttered, still looking at the ground.

It was bound to happen, eventually. And yet Jon felt the tears prickle his eye. He hadn’t had the chance to explain himself to his best friend. And now it was too late.

Sam would never forgive this lie. Not this one. And their children would never grow up together like they had once dreamt.

“Sansa was so scared, and the child was innocent. Now they are both well and we can leave with our consciences at peace” Gilly added, her son firmly clutched against her chest.

It broke Jon’s heart.

“At least they’re safe. If we had told them then, who knows?” Sansa had tried to reason with him one night while changing for bed. But it had been worthless. Jon knew Sam was right. There had been many loses in this war. Daenerys, Theon… His and Sam’s friendship was just another one.

“I couldn’t-“ Jon tried. But they were empty words. Sam was still looking at the floor, never at him, and Jon couldn’t bear to look at Sam’s face either. “It was for the best. She would have killed you too.”

“That was my decision to take. Not yours!” Sam spat, looking at the window.

Outside the sun was shining brightly, but the room never seemed so dark.

“You only wanted to please her. You wanted to keep her happy so you could be king, was it not?” he continued, his eyes still avoiding Jon.

“Sam” Gilly tried to call, but it was worthless.

“No, let me finish!” Sam all but roared, and this time his eyes were on Jon’s, not even blinking. “You’ve always wanted it, didn’t you? You always thought yourself above everyone else, and this was finally your shot, wasn’t it? From bastard of Winterfell to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to King in the North to King of the Seven Kingdoms. That was your big plan all along, was it not, Jon Snow?”

Jon crushed a tear against his cheek, hot rage boiling in his stomach.

But still he said nothing.

“You betrayed me. _Me_ , Jon.” Sam’s voice broke. “I’ve always had your back. Always. And the one time I needed you to have mine you betrayed me.”

Jon took a long breath. Maybe with time it would eventually fade away and Sam would see-

No.

Sam would never see it. And Jon deserved it. He deserved that his brother never spoke to him ever again.

“I’m sorry” he mumbled. But Sam, Gilly and their two sons were already gone.

* * *

Arya cradled the little girl in her arms, her laughter filling the room as she poked the babe’s forehead over and over just to see her blink endlessly.

“She’s lucky” his little sister declared, looking at him and sticking out her tongue. “At least she doesn’t have your ugly face.”

“No, she has _your_ ugly face instead” Sansa whispered before Jon could say anything, her eyes never leaving the needle and yarn in her hands. Another tiny coat to the babe. As if she hadn’t enough already.

“I think we can all agree she doesn’t have anyone’s ugly face” Bran jested, raising his eyes from his book. “She’s too beautiful. What shall you name her?”

Jon heard Sansa’s sharp intake of breath and his heart thumped in his chest.

There was a warm breeze ruffling the thin curtains of the room, and the sun bathed the white floors, painting them gold. It felt like summer, this far south, but Jon was certain that at Winterfell it would be nothing but a timid promise of spring.

His daughter was too beautiful indeed. She was the main reason Jon regretted not having both eyes still, so he could spend both looking at her. Her dark eyes were getting lighter every day and he could now see some of Sansa’s blue in there. But her curls were just as black as his, and there was no doubt the child was his daughter.

“Arya” Sansa said, squaring her shoulders and resting her hands on her lap. Jon curled his around hers and smiled.

“What?” his sister asked, turning towards them.

Jon took a long breath, but noticed his brother’s knowing smile.

“That’s her name” he explained, feeling Sansa’s thumb caressing the back of his hand. He still couldn’t believe they were together again. Each night he went to bed he felt his heart race with fear he would wake up alone in a cold tent. “Arya.”

It hadn’t been a long discussion. Sansa had asked if he wanted to name her Lyanna, like his mother, but it hadn’t sounded quite right to him. Lyanna had been terribly unhappy, used as a pawn in someone else’s game. He didn’t want that future to his daughter, or the ghost of a dead girl looming over her head. And then Sansa said something about everybody always telling Arya how much she looked like their aunt Lyanna, and how sad Sansa was she could never show her sister just how much she loved her.

“What?” Arya asked again, her mouth agape, her grey eyes wide open. She froze, like her feet were stuck to the floor, and the babe in her arms reached for the finger mere inches from poking her forehead for the thousandth time.

“Arya” Sansa repeated. “Her name is Arya. If you don’t mind, that is… She’ll be known as little Arya, to avoid any confusion.”

“Or you can be known as old Arya” Bran mumbled, and this time there was a full smile on his face. Finally. A full smile. “Big Arya would be a gross lie.”

Arya looked at Jon. Then at Sansa.

She shook her head.

“Seven hells, you’re not joking, are you? You’re really naming her Arya?”

“We are” Sansa said, clutching Jon’s hands on her own.

He saw the tears in his sister eyes. Saw them on her cheeks.

She released her niece somewhat awkwardly on Bran’s lap, her brother looking at the bundle over his useless legs as if it was about to catch on fire or something. Arya run to them, much like Sansa that day on Castle Black, and Jon realised they weren’t so different after all. She curled her arms around their necks, and he was certain he’d choke any moment now.

“I love you. I love you both so much” she whispered, and he heard Sansa choke out something along those lines as well.

* * *

“What will happen to the kingdom now?”

He stretched out his arm for her to nestle against his chest, Jon’s other hand on little Arya’s stomach, cradled between them both, so he could feel her steady breathing against his palm. It was all a dream. It would all fade away come morning.

Sansa laced her fingers with his and brought them to her lips. He had almost forgotten how soft and sweet they were. He had almost forgotten how he’d missed them.

Almost.

“I don’t know” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Maybe I don’t care.”

Jon tried to stretch out his legs, but Ghost was already occupying the spot at the end of the bed. How the four of them fit, however, was a complete mystery.

Was this how it would be, from now on? A bed too full? Never being alone ever again?

But Jon found out he rather liked it. He liked the idea of belonging. Of being part of something. And he liked the idea of his daughter above everything else. Such a frail thing… How could he love her so much already? More than anything. More than life itself. That sort of love was dangerous. The same he felt for her mother, and his siblings. That sort of love brought kingdoms down and kept men alive on moments of the despair alike. And for the first time in many moons Jon was glad he was alive still.

Though there was that sharp icy shard in his heart. Sam was gone. Sam would never forgive him. Sam would never forget the treason.

_Traitor…_

“With Daenerys and Cersei gone, who will rule? The kingdom will be left adrift-“ Sansa continued, the tip of her finger brushing a stray curl from Arya’s face.

“The kingdom was adrift already, Sansa. What will you have me do? Tell everyone I’m the trueborn heir of Rhaegar Targaryen and become king?” His voice sounded angrier than he intended. But he was angry alright. He had fought the dead. He had helped avoid the doom of all Westeros. What more did everyone require of him yet? Couldn’t he just be left alone, for once?

She hushed him, her blue eyes drifting to the babe sound asleep between them.

“That’s certainly an option, Jon” she said, without raising her voice. “You are loved by your people, came back from the far North a war hero, know how to rule and care about what’s important.”

Jon huffed, and so did Ghost.

“Leave it, Sansa. I don’t want any more duties. I don’t want to save the world anymore.” Hot rage boiled in her belly, and Arya woke up this time, her desperate screams echoing through their chamber.

Jon caught her small hand, pressing it against her mouth. He was terrible at this. What made him believe he would be a good father? He didn’t know the first thing about children. He didn’t know the first thing about anything.

“I’m sorry, little one. I’m so sorry” he whispered, curling his arm around the babe’s body and pulling her to him.

He knew nothing.

_I can learn, though._

Sansa’s eyes were still on him, piercing holes in his face.

“Winterfell is in ruins again” Jon said, determined to win the argument. She was the smartest person he knew. But maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and Jon raised his free hand to cup her cheek.

“We had no choice” she muttered, lowering her chin, as if she couldn’t bare looking at him right now. “They were too many and then Arya said something about some tunnels, we- We had no choice, Jon. I’m sorry.”

“I know, love. I know.” He leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her lips. Arya had fallen asleep again, but the warmth radiating from her skin was enough to reach his heart. “We’ll rebuild it again. And our children will run across the courtyard and drive everyone mad with their laughter. And we’ll take some lemon trees to the glass gardens so we can have as many lemon cakes we like. And Bran and Arya will grow old with us, and it won’t matter if we rebuild all the towers perfectly or not because we’ll be together.”

Sansa sighed, her hand covering the babe’s belly as she tucked her head under Jon’s chin.

“I want to go home” she said, kissing his chest over the shirt. “But there won’t be a home for us if the rest of the country is torn apart between lords trying to get their arses on the throne.”

He took a long breath and closed his eyes, trying to ignore her words.

But Sansa was right. And for once he’d listen to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Would love to know your thoughts about this, and I'll try to answer all the comments ASAP (I know, I'm terrible, and I should do better). Thank you so much for being there, everyone!


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